Mommy I hear them again,
Those voices.
The ones inside my head.
They make me wanna hurt myself,
Make myself bleed.
So Mommy please hurry.
They won't go away
They only get louder.
Please pass me the gun
Let me take one shot
That outta make'em stop.

Fear, Hiding me
Shaking me
With cold hands
Tearing my lungs
And twisting my breath.
Hiding underneath my lies
Appearing strong
Acting brave
Hiding the cold depths of my heart

For fourteen years I have listened to your shouting...

...yet you say it's out of love.
    
     "Do this! Do that! No no no its all wrong!" You say.

   Little do you know that she'll do anything just to make you smile!

  Even I can tell that it's been missing for quite a while...

...but maybe you like it this way.
      
    Maybe you like it when your voice reaches a higher octave.
  
     Maybe you like the damage caused by the words you've been spouting!

You've shouted for fourteen years and I'm tempted to show you the door

...because I fear you'll scream for fourteen more.

I'm not meant to be a poet...
                                   ...but so be it.

     I can't find enough words that rhyme...
                                   ...honestly I just don't give myself enough time.

     Hell, I can't even follow a simple meter...
                                   ...if I could my poems would be much neater.
      
    Poetry is basically a puzzle...
                                   ...but my pieces don't fit.

    I think I need a genie, I have a wish to grant...
                                   ...but for now all I can do is rant.
  
    Assonance and Consonance...
                                    ... what's the dmn difference?

    Then there's figurative language...
                                    ... I swear I'm at a disadvantage.    
                                               ­                           
    There's different types like a quatrain and haiku...
                                   ...hell I never knew..
  
   Fck I even have to worry about structure...
                                  ... You know I'm just gonna schedule my departure.

   There's a lot of things that I'm not...
                                  ... and for this I've given so much thought.

   I've made my decision and your not gonna like it...
                                  ...I am NOT a poet.

Everybody has a story .
Some are full of glory,
Some are kinda gory.
But mine has no category.

Mine started when I was eight,
I remember I was running late.
I started to walk and began to accelerate.
I didn't know that I was way past checkmate.

That night my grandma passed away.
Daddy snapped later around midday.
His fist put me into a state of dismay.
That pain would never go away.

For years after I was a mute.
People thought I was weird, no dispute.
One day I had a bruise the size of grapefruit.
It was on my arm, honestly it seemed acute.

They called me names and I couldnt hide.
I was ten and my feelings were classified.
Everynight I woke up and I was terrified.
Thats when I shouldve committed sucide.

At eleven I was still recieveing bruises.
I was beginning to run out of excuses.
I was in a fight but my family never loses.
Im about to lose my mind, he might lose his.

I was twelve when I put cuts on my wrist.
I aimed for the vein, sadly I missed.
I never knew how I got caught up in this.
Every time I did I got so fcking ******.

At thirteen I spoke again, but I had a stutter.
Behind my back I heard the kids mutter.
I heard the names the said, including cutter.
I made a friend, I hated everyone but her.

Then that btch stabbed me in the back.
Then I made sure my heart woudn't crack.
Thats when daddy decided to come back.
This time I knew I could fight back.

Daddy said I was prettyless, I got a black eye.
Then I snapped and I still don't know why.
I replied "Sorry, next time I won't cry.
When I leave you better know why."

I entered highschool when I was fourteen.
Fcking hell were those kids mean.
Beforehand I was two months clean.
All I could do is wait to turn eighteen.

Fifteen, thats when I got the scars on neck.
I remember the chair, and I was a wreck.
Taking a rope and tieing it around my neck.
Kicked the chair, but she was quick to check.

The rope burned my skin.
Stripped it down three layers in.
I was only told that I committed a sin.
No one saw how sad I had been.

But I told them, but they never listened.

You left my body black and blue,
but I guess none of it matters to you.
Now there's someone new,
but I'm experiencing deja vu.

The scars you made have yet to fade.
Now I'm receiving cuts from someone else's blade.
And your sittin' in the corner tryin' to throw shade.
Maybe I should block off my heart with a military grade blockade.

My body will forever be covered in bruises,
because you lost your sanity and he's about to lose his.
So many people keep asking bout these bruises,
and I'm finally running out of excuses.

I'm done with hiding these bruises.