Wake up, and do ADL's
Walk to school, and be late for class
Get yelled at, go to office
Next class, be late again
Get detention, go to lunch
Get food, throw it away
Don't eat, go outside
Get bullied, go to next class
Gets sent home, walks home
Go through back door, don't be seen
Gets seen by mum, and gets beat
Go up stairs and avoid bruder's room
Bruder comes out, slaps me
Don't cry, it'll just hurt more
Go online, pretend to do homework
Find someone just like me
Say hi, they say hi back
Talk to them, make friends
Feel like someone cares
Goes to sleep, wakes up
Gets in fight with mum
Sneaks the pills, takes them all
Go to hospital,  surgery
Go home, get beat
Go online, talk to friends
Feel accepted, and loved
Gets offline doesn't eat the whole day
Thinks 2 more days, goes to sleep
Wakes up, goes online
Feel happy, goes down stairs
See's mum, dread...
I mean dead... No more dread...

Left behind, bruised and broken.
Emotions inside, never cry.
Sleeves remain down, until tonight.
No fear, though I'm not alright.
"I'm fine," though I'm really dying.
Look in my eyes, oh so dull.
I was fat, look at me now.
I still don't eat, I'm becoming skinny.
Am I your perfect princess, really?
My thoughts, remain suicidal.
I will never be someones idol.
I know, because I already tried.

The Burden of Creativity
is that somethings I do
somethings I say or think
won't make sense to anybody but me

let's use for example Mr. Kubrick, first name Stanley
who took 178 takes of one scene grandly,
I'm sure everybody was tired and worn into the ground
but The Shining was one of the greatest movies around

so though this may sound self serving to a point
painting pictures with verbs and drawing landscapes with words isn't an easy way to make coin

but that's the curse of Creativity,
a lot of things Don't make sense, even to me

The ice cream van
Has today reached
The melancholic realisation
That the only kids who
Chase clocks for Mr Whippy
And lick the exhaust fumes
In nostalgia
Are the kids who are not kids
But who prematurely aged themselves
With lipstick kisses
And cigarettes
Lowered themselves into nooses
Of sweet-sixteenths
From the age of six

We are a generation of
Peter Pan inversions
We ran ashore
And beached ourselves
Beyond the lure
Of Neverland
We are a generation of
Failed cloud-catchers
Aspiring rainbow-clinchers
Secretly slipping our hands
Back into a dead air
Of former innocence
In the hope we’ll be able to
Retrieve the pieces we left there
We queue and scramble
Like gulls for
Inches we can claw back
Preserving our age in
Wafer cones
And bleeding snows
That glue between our fingers
Each 99 flake
Is a time machine
Which we spin like a music box
And wait for the rewind
Copper coins and sea stains
And we hope we’ll find
Some of the things we lost
But we cannot predict or realign
The atoms or twist ourselves
Back into them
So we sit and watch
The incorruptibility we once possessed
Perished
Sexualised
Corrupted
Pool in the March drizzle
Someone once said
That youth was a process
Of being torn in half
By the past that pulls you back
And the future that tempts you
Being too big and yet too small
Longing but fearing
But an ice cream van tells me
That youth is a process
Of trying not to drown yourself
In what you’ve never had
And when that ice cream van tells me to
MIND THAT CHILD
I can’t help projecting echoes
Of its wisdom
On to all who pass me by
Mind that childhood
Before there’s nothing left to mind

I'm that one girl, who sits in the back of the class.
Just so I can go unnoticed, make my life last.
I always hide in my room.
Just so I don't get beaten, and bruised.
The kids at school, call me worthless, and stupid.
The teachers, say I don't try, but I do try...
I try my hardest at everything, but they don't seem to notice.
My sibling's all they do is torture me.
As if they feed off of my pain, and fear.
I'm that one girl, who only wears ear buds.
To block out the voices of anger, and hurt.
My arms, are not that clean, or neat.
I'm not pretty, and when I say that I mean it.
Maybe I'm not worth it, maybe I'm just a piece of *******.
I am stupid, and I have come to believe it.
Maybe I really don't try hard enough, and I am not trying harder.
My sibling's can feed off me all they want, I don't care anymore.
I've taken my ear buds out, and I'm listening to the screaming of hate.
Yeah my arms are cut, and they will always be cut.
Yes I am not pretty, and that's the truth.
But I am me, and that's okay.