i don't know. i feel crazy sometimes, more than others. i see people, and i see what i wish i could be; fine. everyone has **** going on, but when my friend told me she was stressed and i asked why, she replied "i don't know what to wear tomorrow." if she asked me what i was stressed about, it'd be "i don't know how to stop hating myself."

What good is a poem?
It will not bring back the dead.
It will not feed the hungry
Or shape the steel.
It cannot heal the scarred
Or cradle the heart broken.
In fact I cannot say, at this moment
If a poem can do any good.

What good is a poem?
It can heal the heart filled with despair.
It can inspire higher ideals.
It can rouse laughter from a weary soul.
It can inform.

What good is a poem to you?

And who the hell cares?
I will not close my eyes
Or shut my ears to the world.
Tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock-
     I am a born again sinner
Clamoring with a restless species:
Yeah that means you all,
Flourishing in misery
Over the shrinking planet-
     Babies making babies
And I see them all becoming depressing
      Fires, like little stars flashing
For a tiny moment the exploding
     Searching for the abyss called desire,
I cannot say my name,
      Who the hell cares
When the world is a buried sphinx
Under a questioning of programs,
    Asking:
" What's this life for!" in blue tears.
        The blood flows under
Closed wounds,
   Yesterday and today when the revolution
Was never fought and the thought
Comes crashing down against
     The youth in the dawns troubling light,
    Children, it never stops!
The dream dies at the impenetrable sky,
   Children with half smiles
And a sigh of anguished breaths,
     Collection of living dust and bones,
Into the bitter night the dove
Itself cannot rest,
    I cannot say my name,
At the right hand of oppression
    Flourishes an anger building
Like a mutilated rose roaming
    For a sense of destiny.

I fall, you fall,
      We are convicted,
Living in a shadow of nothingness,
    The forgotten scent of the dream,
These strange sounds that flutter,
     My God give me a destiny,
But I cannot say my name,
    I remain a face in an ocean
Of solitary faces,
      We look out on the road,
There is death passing through,
     A tiny rumble in the heart
Then cries:
      FREEDOM!

The dove has flown away into whiteness,
The doe filled with an unborn verse.
Live, little poem- yet to be written-
And the words gnaw away like a dark wolf.

The eye of the world is on you,
The ink is drowning on my page.
The pearl of thought escaping
My oblivion born into a dark innocence.

Little poem yet to born
Up from the nightingale's journey
Into a subtle abundance,
Like an invasion of white lilies.

From my graveyard of angelic thoughts,
Flowing like a blind star,
The creature that is born
Like the Apple untouched in Eden.

Doom laden
Light my way
With candle of blackest tallow
And flame of brightest white
I follow my nature
My gravitation
Without question

Godless and lawless
Out of the wild I came
Still wet and trembling
Hairless and bared to all
I lived off the fruit of the land
And open to the sky
As is the way of my kind

What did I know of fences?
Or of lines on a map
All I saw was plenty for all
I knew nothing of money
I knew only being fed and being hungry
So they called me thief
They called me savage

Doom laden
Light my way
With candle dripping tallow
And flame of dimmest red
With hesitation I follow
Stumbling and lost no doubt
Yet still I follow

                              By Phil Roberts

Not all Hero's wears a cape,

a hero is the person who brought you into this world.

A hero is that person who stopped on the street to give what they could to that homeless man.

A hero is that person who wakes up each day and has to deal with depression anxiety or self worth.

A hero is that kid who is told he will never get anywhere in life and regardless to what he has be told he will stand high and he will reach his goal.

As a child we grow up thinking that you need a super power to be a super hero but in the end a hero come in what is under the frown.