I write to stay alive,
To release the words that tear my flesh
In their efforts to be born into this world.
I write to leave my mark on the universe
Rather than leaving marks on my skin.
I write to prevent the silence from strangling me
In its utter oppressiveness.
I write to wash the sins out of my body
And the stains off of my hands.
I bleed ink rather than blood
And wax poetic to avoid coveting new scars.
I write because it's the only way I've ever learned
To externalize the humanity that cuts me so deeply.
I write because language saves me from myself.
I write because my very existence depends on it.

You think I romanticise suicide?
That I can find glory in death?

You're wrong.

I don't hope for romance, there is no romance in laying six feet deep.

Being defeated by your own mind holds no glory, there is no pride in suicide.

You say...
Get over it.
You can fight this.
It's only in your mind.

And you're right.

It's only im my mind so stop telling me how I feel.

So shut up.

I know it's weak.
Selfish... but it is my choice.
I know you think it's a choice to be happy.
If it was did you really think I would choose this?

sadness
pain
depression

Suicide

Trying to write a goodbye.
Wondering about the music for my funeral.

Suicide

I'm always scared but fighting.
I am weak but never giving up.
Never giving in.

I don't think this is fun.
This is suicide your talking about.
No romance.

Empty of joy and glory.
Suicide.
A way out.

There is a ghost in my house,
Scaring me everytime I see her in the mirror,
Short red bown hair,
Black clothes,
An ugly fake mile and dead  eyes,
I know who this ghost is,
She dyed many years ago,
Her name is Natasja Raven,
Her name is mine,
I turned in a ghost a long time ago.

She committed suicide in her poetry...

She
Wrote
About
Slit
Wrist,
And
Broken
Lips
She committed suicide in her poetry...

She
Fell
In
Love
With
A
Simile,
Metaphorically
She committed suicide in her poetry...

I
Mean
She
Actually
Wrote,
That
She
Was
Going
To
Hang
Herself
From
A
Rope
She committed suicide in her poetry...

She
Wanted
To
Be
Freed,
So
She
Chose
To
Let
Her
Pen
Bleed
She committed suicide in her poetry...

She
Had
Only
One
Life
To
Turn
In,
But
She
Gave
It
Up
Again
And
Again
She committed suicide in her poetry...

When
She
Felt
Least
In
The
World,
And
Felt
It
Should
No
Longer
Twirl
She committed suicide in her poetry...

When
She
Got
Tired
Of
Stressing,
After
Tears
Would
No
Longer
Fall,
After
So
Many
Failed
Lessons,
When
She
Felt
Neglected
Of
Blessings
She committed suicide in her poetry...

Depression is the swamp monster,
The murk and mud in the water.
It makes it difficult to see the bottom
Or know how deep it goes.

I want so badly to be me enough
That it doesn't matter how crazy I am.

She said "I'm falling in love."

I said "I'm falling apart."