We live in a world where some choose to sit idle by
as a cry for help is silenced by an obsession with wealth,
as mental health concerns suffers the silent treatment
and reason categorises wounds and scars to visible marks.
Sometimes the marks are visible, the physical projection of pain,
the doctors deem them fixable, as if the pain ingested
could be cured by a pill or an injection, it's reckless
to assume pain from a broken perspective.
It is not effective to judge what should and shouldn't hurt,
sometimes it just hurts, the dirt in a wound waiting to blister
like a twister caught between an earthquake and a tsunami,
an army of different antidepressants swallowed without hesitance,
but sometimes it still hurts. It just hurts.

We live in a world where suicide is one thing countries share in common,
and often we ask ourselves 'do politicians ever think about people?'
The feeble argument between money and lives, as the night
passes its light onto different matters. When a person falls in a forest,
can their cries for help be heard. The muttered words are non existent,
but the persistent debate of what is going to be next in the budget cut,
loses touch on what is really human; 'when are we going to fund the help
that mental health concerns deserve?'.

The children is our key to the future, like candles alighting tomorrow
so why are we letting mental illness blow out the lights.
The children is our key to the future, but what future must we share
if humanly care and compassion is missing from the equation,
a new train station will not provide a shoulder for those who need it,
is human kindness disappearing?
How many more lives must we watch perish?

My friends don't care
They leave me here to bleed
I cry when I get home
And bleed myself to sleep

The darkness will sing,
"Honey don't cry,
Cut your wrists, close your eyes
And dream of broken butterflies"

I'm an artist with a masterpiece
My inspiration comes in rushed
So my wrist becomes my canvas
And my razor becomes my brush

That's what my name is
my given name,
that is

it means Natural Spring
(of water)
but,
it does not mean it's me

How can a name,
given to you
                    by those
who never truly saw you,
belong to you?

It belongs to them.

as does Pinar,
                  the girl that's molded to their liking
                  the safe girl, the one who is never a risk
                  the girl who receives love, when she plays by the rules
                  the girl who serves as a mirror, of their own merits
                  the girl whose duty overrides her every desire
                  the girl whose soul screams, but no one is there to hear it
                  the girl that exists, only around them

MY name, good sir,
is
Penny

It is a name given to me by a six-year old girl
it felt true, to be seen by the eyes of a child
to be graced, by that purity
with a name to call my own

                                   Penny.

A name given, innocently
and so I claim my true name be
Not what was given to me,
but was seen,
of me

--PY

I sit down in tweak town
To jot down a new noun,
A nice verb, a poetic sound,
But all that comes out
Is blah blahs, and doubt.
There’s not enough coffee,
To help satisfy me,
As long as I compare myself,
To everybody else.

So here in caffeine city,
The poetry is witty.
Every verse excites me.
Ever line invites me,
To be better.
Speed is my muse,
As long as I let her.

A nicotine lozenge,
Four milligram a piece,
Helps me stay awake,
Until, I am allowed to sleep;
Helps me to stay alert,
Helps me write this verse,
But in the end
The zzzz will hit me worse.
I guess, I should have just gone to bed
Instead.