Poet lives amongst people,
in the land of sadness and happiness, where they live,
he dresses up like them, speaks like them,
in their language he had to learn.
But when he is on his own, he speaks in own tongue
to not to forget it.
He speaks with the dead, he keeps in touch with them,
to make sure everything goes according to plan.

He is afraid to tell what he sees,
in case people put him down and disbelieve.
He forces himself to keep his mouth shut,
he knows the price. He can't just die,
he's on a mission. So carefully
he smuggles in the truth in his poetry.

Fake smile,
           Dried eyes,
                       Scratched wrists,
                                         Bruised thighs,
                                                         White pills,
                                                                      Rope tied,
                                                                                Gun loaded,
                                                                                                     *Suicide.

Hey you.

Yes you. Fourteen year old blonde girl with her eyes on the floor and the world in her hand.

Why are you looking around an empty room waiting for something beautiful to happen?

Don’t you know how brilliant you are?

You don’t have the perspective to know that one day you will rule the world.

You will fall in love again, and he still won’t love you back. Not the way you wanted him to.

You will glue yourself back together so many times that you’ll forget what it feels like to not have cracks in you.

You’ll be lonely more often than you’ll be in good company.

Music will begin to feel like oxygen instead of a vapid hobby.

Thicken your skin kiddo, but never be afraid to sob when Fields of Gold plays on the radio.

Look around the room every chance you get and listen to the sound a family makes.

Don’t let him take away the one thing you’ve ever been good at.

Go ahead. Curl up into your little corner of the world and cry for a bit. Nobody said it would be easy.

But stop for a second.

Stop running around like the world is ending.

Look in the mirror.

Really look.

Memorize the mascara tracks down your cheeks and the look in your eyes that says “There must be something better than this.”

Keep it in your back pocket when you’re out ruling the world.

So that one day, when a fourteen year old blonde girl with the world in the palm of her hand comes to you with tears in her big eyes.

You can say,

“Baby, don’t you know how brilliant you are?

Take a look around the room, and make something beautiful happen.”