A bittersweet taste from the bottle marked poison,
the "DO NOT ENTER" sign of our life's story.
We all have that red button, tempting for us to set the nuclear war of thoughts into action.
And no matter how many people tell us not to push it, we always do.
Because we were the children who struggled, we were born to be survivors.
Our parents never noticed the sickness that lay behind their child's wide with wonder eyes, no.
They listened to our words, but never broke apart the meaning in-scripted into our language.
We were hurt.
A hurdling meteor of innocence brought so violently into this Earth we call home.
Gifted the hearts that bleed of honesty and beat with anxiety.
Melancholy souls trapped within this soft to touch barrier,
The blade from our school day sharpeners rest upon the flesh,
Vigorous in our attempt to feel something more, anything but this.
Wandering endlessly through cloudy days in search of “better”
A letter left on the bedside table of our dimly lit room,
Every word striking a cord of truth that won’t settle easily when they hear the news.
We died here.
Laying helplessly in the grave of our mattress, our mind no longer racing.
Blood that stopped flowing hours ago because that’s how long it took them to find us.
To realize we were broken, to realize we would never give someone the chance to glue back together our fragile pieces.
Everything fragile breaks, and we couldn’t give anymore.
Not because we didn’t want to, no.
But because we simply had nothing left to give.
Cloaked among ashes we begin to heal,
wiping the slate clean, letting our heart begin to feel.
Repairing the broken damage our vessel has bared along the way
Lighting the world with a smile to lift others pain,
Stop and stare, stay awhile, away from despair.
Then my child; move on, throughout the world to prepare;
To step into the fire your heart once lit and rise like the great phoenix.