this world, this life
our only known, guaranteed shot at consciousness
should be spent by everyone,
extravagantly

and it deeply hurts me
like ten thousand knives into my optimism
that people are still waking up every day
wishing they could die.

i can't think of many things sadder than that.

No matter how sick, tired, sad,
or unhappy you are,
there’s one thing
you can still be grateful for
and that’s the fact that you’re still here.

Hating yourself
is not beautiful
Hating your father, your mother
is not beautiful
Hating ex (girl) (boy) friends
is not beautiful

Getting drunk
Laying stiff on an air mattress
Tell me, what's fun about this?

Partying isn't for me
I feel so empty

I'll keep drinking shot after shot
And maybe I'll feel differently

Maybe I'll get the love of my life out of my head,
Trick myself into thinking I'd rather be with someone else instead.

Take another puff, pass it around
In the morning I'll be alone on the cold hard ground.

"Not a ****** anymore"
Um, congratulations?
20 second duration

A.j.b. is better than you
Physically
Mentally
Every way

But I can no longer be with him and
I just want to die,
So keep filling my cup
Because I am empty

I just don't give a **** about being alive,
But partying doesn't make me feel any better.

I'll keep going, though. Maybe eventually I'll stop wanting to **** myself if I trick myself instead.

"You're seventeen, why do you work so much?"
Is what most people say,
When they learn how I spend every day
Working one job or the other, after/before school.

What I want to say is,
I work
To
     Pay dad's medical bills
His rent
       & mom's utilities
My phone bill
  & his

what I actually say is
"It's to spend money on things I don't need,
like other seventeen-s!"
I let people have the illusion that,

      "Money gives me freedom!"

          "I love making my own money"
or

"I'm saving up for a car."
                            
                              ­           When I don't even have a real savings account.


I'd never say

                                *Help me,
                                      I'm burning out.

dress up your poem with pretty sounding synonyms
                                                  &
wait for a golden lightning bolt to confirm you are not alone

I ******* hate both of you.

and there's nothing poetic about hatred.