Commitments we make
out of what?
we're scared to break
something we may have never wanted to start
tied down
by the dream of the world
before we could even fall asleep
on our own
for my dream is nothing like yours
no lures
of everlasting guilt
these petals dont fall
but wilt
under the pressure of  acid rain
that i know is pretentious
but under extensive
watch
becomes as clear as the tears
that graze the heart
I cant seem to muster
for feelings
I dont seem to have

but it's difficult
when everything
around you
is so beautiful;

beautiful and fated
for disaster
and decay.

I have to write a happy poem
Even though it’s hard
It’s so strange how happy I tend to be
It’s just my words typed are
muddy

with sorrow and defeat and
fight, fight, fight against someone
I don’t know
who-

could it be?
Am I crazy or sane?
Inside my brain is there a problem
that makes me fake or am I
real?

Do I just shpeal the wrong words at
the wrong times and they just don’t
appeal the way
I want them to.

This poem is not happy
and that makes me sad
Sad and mad but not in the way
that makes me want to fight
the way that keeps
the insomniacs up at night

but

I sleep soundly.

Now I see how confusing this poem
is coming out to be
I should
stop.

Stop now or stop writing I’m
not sure but how
can we be certain of anything
when everyone of us is
bursting with ideas
but so confined.
So confined.

I never want my mind
to feel that way.

I've gotten so good at being alone
now it's a great time on the couch
surfing the web on my phone
singing with a wide mouth
letting random melodies pour out
throw in a shout or a laugh
chilling with myself like a *******
but it's fun, acting exactly how I
want to act, patting my own back
I'm glad I didn't let myself as a best friend
slip through the cracks.

“you must know you’re beautiful”
somedays, yes. somedays, no.
the twelve year old me will haunt me most mornings,
placing nonsense like a flower wreath through my hair.
she’ll pick my stomach, stretching the skin like putty.
she’ll still her tongue out, gnawing at my bones.
i will hear the dark words, and they will stain upon my skin,
coal and smeared.
the fifteen year old me will creep in the afternoon,
smudging ink eyeliner, telling me there’s never a thing as toomuch.
she will sing into my pores, telling me i need to return to pale tiles
and empty hallways.
she will hide under my skin, waiting until the men and scary ideas return
to the base of my mouth.

my insides are pretty, beautiful (most of the time)
so give me more time, to work on the outside.
it has been long, i know.
but i need more.
more.

my darling
you have
the most beautiful eyes

how i’d love
to pluck them
from out your fairest skull

and swallow them whole
so you can see
my inner demons

and i can taste
your tears
inside of me

this is a shout out to the kids who haven’t cracked a smile since last summer.
To the kids who’s wrists turned to cutting boards
and stomachs intentionally went empty.

This is the anthem for saturday nights spent on the couch just asking yourself “why”
For hours spent thinking that it’s your fault your parents split and theres nothing you can do.

For the kids who drag a blade across their wrist and carve grand canyons into their wrists although its still not the same.

A song for the kids who crack their knuckles as a distraction from the glares they get from across the classroom in fifth period science.

A harmony to the kids who are trying so hard to fit in but cant seem to get the hold of the right words to stick on their tongue so instead the wrong words slip out of their mouthes and roll into a ball of embarrassment.

A five star dinner served to his four friends which left him three years later and two years later he was just one kid by himself fending off the monsters we call classmates all alone.

Another sleeping pill for the boy who prays with his eyes shut but cant sleep because his eyes have already been closed for hours.

A brace for the broken and the weak as the week drags on to the point where every word that ends in the letter y makes you want to pull your hair out.

A poem dedicated to the kids who cant fend for themselves in the jungle.
Its a hard existence.
But we can make it through.