First of all, if you have to steal pieces of other people's lives to make yourself feel good with reactions, I'm sorry for you.
Second: these poems are people's lives, their hearts and for many the only way of being heard. And you are stooping low enough to take that from them. Shame on you.
Third: if you will steal something like poetry, then who knows what else you steal from others. You will never be your own person and never feel personal accomplishment

Lastly:

*******

I need you right here by my side
to just hold me and let me know its okay.

To reassure me it was not my fault.
I can't tell anyone right now

But you would know the story
and all my regret

I need you right here by my side
to hold me and tell me it was not my fault

She stands there in the corner
hunched and scared
Looking like she is standing at the edge of a crevasse
and something evil is getting closer to pull
her little confidence apart

Does she not see?
She is beautiful
Every pound that she hates
Is unnoticable
When she smiles the room lights up
When she talks everything seems good

Come and join us
and do not be afraid
No one judges here

Talking to you is the best therapy
even if you don't respond I feel better
because you always understand
and if you don't, you try to.

And I appreciate that

Thank you

You make everything better

It is not even half way through the year yet, and their words have already began to morph into knives.
the words come flying out so fast, it takes some time to realize, what just took place.
what was just taken.
his stares have already become dreaded.
and his face has already become loved.
yet his intentions are all just one big blur.
and his sentences, all for me, have become bullets, aimed for my heart,
just the spot to ****.
destroy.
end.
and yet his smile, all for me, has become thy sanctuary.

I wish there were words
or pictures
or sounds
that could convey how I feel inside
but no matter how much I try
or how many nights I waste
with pen in hand and paper not far
I end in a teary eyed fury
because the creativity that leaks
from the outside world
into my skin
seethes within my bloodstream
and blankets my being
and it gets stuck
and no matter how much I write
or draw
it just seems to multiply
and I sicken with sadness
unable to share what I have within me.
So I smoke
and pop pills
and somehow
it releases this creative pressure
or seems to display it in my feelings
and I am alive again.

I am bad at apologizing,
It is not that I do not feel remorse,
sometimes I feel it's undeserved.
If you wrong me,
why I am I the one who regrets?
Why do I feel this all?
I am sorry.
I am sorry.
I am sorry.
I swear to Heaven, to Hell, and back.
I'll be better next time.