Words have taken over my life. They control me. I am alone. I am afraid. I have been bullied. Years. Beaten with words. Hated with words. Betrayed. Stabbed. Doubt traced it's way to my mind and soul. I am infected. Not loved. Stolen. Taken. Kidnapped. Someone is disturbed by me. I have no friends. I write of sorrow. I am still waking up. My safe place in life is in my music. The only thing I have. What has began. This is a terrible story. This is my life, ******* words, the thing suffocating me is my life, how pathetic. No self control. No risk's to take. No way of living. Everything written by me is disgrace to others. Shocking. "Wow, what a brilliant mind she has. She needs to be more happy though." Shut up, I will not change. Not for anyone. This is me, don't like it then don't read it. Don't ******* judge me just by looks. I am tired of hatred remarks from ones inner opinion. Cussing. Screaming. Last year, I got picked on the bus, like every single day. That one day I had enough crap from the girls at school. One guy sad the last thing and I snapped. I cried I showed him that I have a weakness, that I am weak. I still cry. When I got home that day I through my bag in the middle of the street, screaming, cussing. One true friend standing next to me telling me "Amber, it is going to be OK," Giving me hugs. While my other "friend" says, and I quote. "Amber you shouldn't put you're bag there" Then she walk the rest of the way home. I ran to my house, bag still on the street. I lock myself in the bathroom screaming, and cutting. Blood on my wrist. Tears on my face. He did it, they have done it. "ARE YOU HAPPY NOW!" Still screaming. I never speak my mind. I don't tell my feelings. Every night I cry. Every ******* night. Go ahead think that this is for the views. It's not. It is not a lie. This is real. I am real. They are fake. The words now are just mixed up. I scream, I cry. I cry, I scream. I am crying as I am typing. I just. I don't know anymore. I am just here. You are just there. We are apart. You may not understand. You may relate. I am sorry if you can. But this is one little part of my story... Welcome to my life.

To me a Dandelion is not only a ****, killed, hated, yet god's prayers, for every wish to become true. Yet a beautiful sprung grown, flower wanting to be a rose, but accepting the fact that being a Dandelion is good.

My body is still. I enjoy the air. I live out the freedom in the moment. My chest up, down; breath after breath. Dress flowing with the wind. My bare feet, toes twine with the grass. The water at the end of the cliff bouncing off the dirt forming an army of waves, a battle. The moon center of my view, my mind. I am at peace. I am fearless. I am home.

I am done with life. I hate myself. I hate people. I want the sweet sent of suicide to rome amongst my feet. I feel of no place for me to be in. I am a disturbance.
How can I be so ugly in and out. I don't fit in. I am bullied. I am abuse with sounds and fists. I am alone. No one can relate. I am stuck.
I mustn't talk, no, not a sound. It's a sin if expressed. I am the passage way to depression, enjoy the ride while you can. I am sorrow. I am me, the worst to be.
Why must I be alone? What did I do? Well I can't complain, if god did this then what is he to be of heaven. God is the root to all evil. Well in my world he is. Believe and are betrayed.
I don't understand my meaning of life. Why must you drop me from heaven if so then why thee others gracefully down. I hate how I am separate from myself. The different views. The world is a dark place. I feel of nothing to be cheerful of. I am my only friend.
Most of you think, wow, great writing. These are my feelings. This poem is my mind. The only way I can communicate to any other is this, yet they read and just continue life without a doubt, while I am still right here. What have I become, a monster, a guesser.