I'm a person;
I am not a meal to be devoured yet they say that real girls have a bit of meat on their bones.
I'm a person;
they may tell me that wearing make up is false advertising but I am not a product to be sold and I am not theirs to own.
I'm a person;
and no matter how many times they whistle at me in the street, I am not a dog who's going to go running to them.
I'm a person;
I am not an object for them to touch, use or abuse whenever they wish to; that behaviour I abhor and condemn.
I'm a person
with as much talent and intelligence as them but I am held back by the glass ceiling in my endeavours.
I'm a person
and I'm determined to reach my goals - I will not be held back by my oppressors.

You were the boy always drinking and high on drugs
and I was the girl always falling for bullies and thugs;
in our toxic relationship you smashed me into pieces time and time again,
yet still I chose your "love" regardless of the torture, abuse and the pain.

Pen in hand waiting to glide across the lined sheet
and yet no blood is spilling upon the page so I admit defeat.
I am void of prodigious literary expression;
my spark has gone and now I must face temporary repression.

And my mind often wanders to think of all those who have the most beautiful souls and the kindest hearts,
and how they're always the victims of the mind who wish they could just breathe their last -
how unfair it seems to me that those who give the most to everything and everyone
are the ones that are the most disconsolate and stuck in a darkness where they can't find the sun.

He's searching for all that will destroy him and everything he knows;
anything that will help him forget the trauma and the surrounding despondent shadows.
First came the shots of ***** and the little white pills he'd swallow each and every day,
then came the self-tattooing of his skin using a thin and sharp silver tip in every which way.
Soon it was the rush of taking an ****** cocktail in the hope of drowning out the violent voice in his head;
and staying in bed for days on end, wishing to be nothing; to be neither alive or dead - but to be a nonentity instead.

So lost within her own madness,
she was addicted to the sadness.
The voices in her head were so violent,
yet she opted to remain silent.
Death crept up on her and whispered callously in her ear,
then encouraged by its words, she took action so as to help the end grow near.

No amount of strong coffee or sleep
can cure my tiredness; it runs too deep.
It’s the kind of exhaustion from lack of exuberance and hope
and a perpetual state of desolation in which I’m unable to cope.
So worn down by life and the trials it brings every single day,
this is not the kind of fatigue that can easily be taken away.