When they saw that girl,
With her head bowed down,
Nowhere near the clouds,
Did they wonder why,
She walked down those halls,
With her fists shoved in her pockets?
Did they question,
Her silence,
And cold poker-face?
Did they ponder why,
A young girl like her,
Never talked to anyone?
Did they care that she,
Choked back tears,
Because her life wasn't fair?
No.
They didn't wonder,
They didn't quesiton,
They didn't ponder,
Because they,
Just.
Don't.
Care.

Most poets, as far as i've seen,
seem to battle with depression...
why is that? Well, I can't ask that about myself,
because I already know why I'm like this.
To think... It all started in the 5th grade...
That feels like ages ago now.
One of the last days of the year,
Everyone was watching Robots,
or enjoying free reign of the playground.
I was one of the movie-goers,
Happily munching away at a little bag popcorn
Durring "intermission" aka, a bathroom break,
A teacher asked me if I could help her out with something.
Little kids are so **** nieve...
I followed her into the library like a little puppy.
In the library was a group of my friends.
(for the sake of annonamysy, I won't name them)
I was told to sit at the little round table next to the teacher,
not suspecting a thing.
She started off by asking us if we had ever heard
"sticks and bricks may break my bones,
but words, they cannot hurt me,"
Most of us hadn't at that time.
I was still smiling then.
She explained that the saying is not true,
and that words do hurt.
The reason I was brought there
Was that I'd said I felt smart,
After gettting an A on an assignment.
Apparently my 'friends' were offened by that.
The teacher told me to think about others
before saying "something like that" again.
My eyes started watering.
My lip was set to a quiver.
I returned to the movie room,
intermission was long since over,
The movie was started without me.
I moved my little chair,
to the back of the room.
Lights off, curtains closed...
I learned to be glad for the darkness.
It hid my tears.
The laughter of the children
covered the sounds of my sobs.
That was when I taught myself
how to cry quietly.

Journaling is hard...
Have you ever tried it?
You write each day, about random ****,
Only to find nobody gives a crap.
You fall asleep early and into the trap-
Of procrastination.
This dutiful task is one big opperation,
With the heart monitor beeping,
Time keeps on ticking.
The days smear together,
On the ugly speckled canvas,
Of the 50¢ notebooks,
You store next to your bed...


***** journaling,
I think I'd rather be a poet.