It hurts the most
When the person
That made you feel wanted yesterday
Made you feel so unwanted today.

He stands on the edge
his arms spread out like wings,
his eyes shut to the murky water
swirling angrily below him.

He takes a step forward,
walking on thin air,
before gravity brings reality.

He falls as if in slow motion,
his heart leaping out to touch
the water before his body does.

He sinks like a stone,
his heart heavy with the
years of sadness and pain
weighing him down

Yet a week later ,
when they finally brought him up,
where his cheeks were waterlogged and swollen,
was the ever so hint of a smile

there are two types of sadness

there’s the kind of sadness
we ignore and
try to get rid of it
by finding new things to do
or we find someone to talk to
by blatantly avoiding any type of conversation
about feeling sad
about having any feelings at all
and then there’s that kind of sadness
that takes over
and it consumes any activity we do
we know it’s there
and there’s no possible way to avoid it
so we feed it exactly what it wants
it craves the sad music
it craves the isolation
it craves the anxiousness
and the sadness comes storming in
it has no manners
here we are calling sadness, an “it”
when all it is
is a feeling
that most people
call home

I wish you loved me
but most of all
I wish I loved myself

My friends say I’m lucky,
I’m not even lucky in the slightest for anything.
if I was lucky the universe would of helped a girl out by now.

If I was lucky I’d have the guy of my dreams
If I was lucky I wouldn’t think about dying alone.
If I was lucky I wouldn’t cry myself to sleep.
If I was lucky so lucky  I’d have the biggest smile.
But I’m not so lucky I can’t even function tell people how they make
Me feel

Isn’t it funny,
The happiness we pretend to have
Is the very thing
Holding us back from living.

I feel my petals drop,
Slowly on the ground.
Leaving voids, emptiness.
Leaving me undone.
Bare.
Barren.
Unsound.

She wanted to turn her pain into art
So she decided her skin was a canvas
But the brush was too sharp
And the lines were too deep
So red paint soaked through
And there was nothing other than tragedy
For the art was not beautiful
Like sunsets and flowers
It was harsh and sad
Even though the lines were clean
It left a mess on the bathroom floor
And the paint stained her arms
And she sat peacefully watching
The masterpiece she created
Be later hidden by long sleeves

What do you do
When you can't
cry?
What do you do
When you can't
Help?
What do you do
When there's no place
to go?
Your not stuck with anyone
but your self.