Some people are raised
From a very young age
to believe that they’re
special and one of a kind.
And as they grow, they’re
Devastated to find out that
We’re all the same
They buy a home
They have a few kids
They conform to
The sociable
And they’re happy
Then there’s the people who
From the beginning of their lives
Are told that they’re worthless
And they succumb to the
Pressure of those crushing
Adjectives and they wither
And fall
Into drugs or crime or civil
disobedience to everything

We are made to believe that
The norm is to settle.
Is to capitulate to the standards
Of everyone around us.
Yes we’re all the same
But what makes us different isn’t
Our appearance or our race or gender
Or our personal style.
What makes us, Us.
Is our capacity to hope.
To dream.
To cherish.
To love.
To grasp something so tightly
to your chest that your body
has no choice but to make it
its own
Those exact things also makes us
The same  
We are all artists in the grand
Scheme of things
In our own universes, In front of us
Stands the canvas of decisions
Make sure you create something
Worth the trouble

You don't think I'm ready
to see the world?

You don't think that I'll
accept people?

You don't think that
I want to live?

One day you will see
when your only glimpse of me
will be in a **picture frame.

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

Depression.
We, as a society,
should step back
and evaluate this word.

What are we doing
that causes people
to cut themselves
or throw themselves
off of bridges?

Are we really so selfish
as to overlook these people?

They are fighting a battle
that we can't even fathom
playing out in their heads.
The casualties, the blood,
everything is real to them.

I will continue to utter,
"We must help"
until it becomes a roar
of people demanding
to give them a second thought.

We must help them.

No more lives should
slip through the cracks.

I can't stand the phrase,
"I'm fine." because
somewhere down the line
someone hurt you.

Fine is inadequate
to whatever you are feeling inside.
Default answers
bring up more questions
than *answers.

An old man sits on a bench.
He says nothing.

I walk by.
I gaze into his eyes.
Now I know why he's silent.

I will find other worlds
outside of this bubble
that I live in. This
"security bubble,"
this "incubator"
until my parents finally decide
to let me experience something
on my own without being a tourist.

To travel to India, South America and wherever I want.
Mom and Dad, I guarantee you that
I won't come back skinny and gaunt.