Dear God,
I know we have not talked for a while
but there are still some questions
I need you to answer.
I never doubt your existence,
but I doubt you are kind at heart.
Why did you give me eyes?
Only to see people suffer?
Only to see fathers
abusing their daughters,
mothers hurting their sons?
You give me eyes
and I want to scratch them out.
I am too tired of crying all night.
Why did you give me ears?
Only to hear endless screams?
Only to listen to stories of destruction,
of void and eternal dark,
of suicide, mother of all self-abuse.
Listen how smile turns into tears,
and silent whispers
becomes screams so loud,
and I can't stand them!
HELP! HELP! HELP!
Why did you give me ears
if they are of no use?
Why did you give me hands?
Only so I can touch the scars?
To feel the cuts on the inside?
To cut myself
with words,
not razors,
when I am trying to write.
Why in all this chaos of life
I feel like I was born
with my hands tied?
Why can't I stop them
from hurting others
and themselves,
from smoking another cigarette,
or from drinking,
until they drink themselves to death,
from going to bed with strangers,
out of pure disrespect for themselves,
from accepting the twisted judgments of society,
and carving the verdicts into their bodies and heads.
From taking strange medical substances,
and non-medical as well,
just to be accepted
by people that never care.
Why did you even give me heart?
Only to be broken?
By what? Love?
Bigger lie cannot be spoken!
It's just selfish desire
of touching the skin
of other human being.
Having control,
reserving their body
all for yourself.
Or worse,
sharing pieces of soul,
never to return,
when the cracks from within
reach out and break you apart.
Dear God,
I accept I'm inferior and so very limited,
but in your holiness and immortality,
why is there beauty,
laced with suffering,
innocence,
treated with hate,
happiness,
mixed with pain,
smile,
embraced with grief.
I understand
there is no rainbow
without the rain,
but give me some hope to believe...

i thought i moved on
he drove himself into me so hard
i felt static in the tips of my fingers and toes
i was sure i was over you
but when he was in me
all i could think about was
that time you told me
you'd love me forever

I regret.
I told you to go
and then you listen to me.

You went and I thought, "Maybe this is for the best. This is how I get over you"

I regret.
And it hurts so bad,
watching the two of you so in love.

I regret.
That moment in time.
When I didn't tell you, "I'm in love with you."

All armies are the same
Publicity is fame
Artillery makes the same old noise
Valor is an attribute of boys
Old soldiers all have tired eyes
All soldiers hear the same old lies
Dead bodies always have drawn flies

Why does it have to be you
who says the things
I want to hear the most.

Yesterday
I spent $45
on brand cosmetic makeup

Drove home after
debating with
myself in line,
shaky hands fumbling
with the plastic
casings enveloping
over-priced wax

Today
I woke up at 6 A.M.
applying my new
purchases with a
loving hand,
Confidence glowing
from my freshly done
face like sun beams

You and I
may have different
definitions of
a good day

The goals I set
for myself you
may scoff at,
a daily routine
for you has taken
me 4 weeks, 32
days and the writing
of this poem
to finally complete
(It would be 31 days
but I spent one extra
trying to convince
myself that I am
as worthy as
the first day
of the
month.)

Since Monday
I have accepted
the doctor’s advice,
paid my
car insurance and
my phone bill,
returned 11 missed
calls, hushed the
demons beneath
my bed so that I
could get one
good night’s sleep
(Their voices in
my head no
longer haunt
me.), remembered
to take all
of my
medicine

My dad
is proud
of me

This kind of
pride is
not the type
he flaunts
over toasts
at the bar,
he doesn’t
chime into
conversations
like, “My
daughter scored
a perfect 36 on
her ACT” with
“Did she? Well my
daughter can
finally take
all 5 pills
without
a reminder”
but
He is proud

To be so appreciative
of something so
small
is because
he remembers
the vortex
before this

The days I could
not remember
the function
of any part
of this
lifeless body,
the days I
would keep
as silent as
the intonation
of the ugliest
shade
of grey for
months; he
prayed each
weekly
phone call
from
the hospital
wasn’t
the “I’m
so sorry”
following my
suicide

These
were the
bad days

My life
was a gift
I wanted
to return

The thick
fog of darkness
settling inside
my head served
as mood lighting
for the loose
screws and
bent nails,
the crevices
of my brain
inviting each
drop of
mental illness
in to
drown me

Depression
loves me
so good

She has
this intrinsic
flaw of
locking the
spotlight
on you,
the betrayal
to parallel
your thoughts
with her
own, and
it becomes
more natural
to welcome
the abuse
than to find
a way to
escape

Today
I willingly
climbed
out of bed
before my
alarm,
washed my
bed sheets,
changed
my profile
picture on
Facebook,
opened
the windows

You and I
may have different
definitions of
progress

I didn’t get
the perfect 36
on my ACT
even after taking
it 4 times, I
didn’t get accepted
to my dream
school, but I
don’t punish
others
for the
absence of
my desires,
and my dad
is proud
of me

The brick wall
edifice of my
depression now
lie in ruins, and
I take full
credit,
the filter of
grey shading
over my life
has transformed
itself into
the color of
hope

My favorite pen
I’ve relied on
to rewrite
my life has
challenged me:
“This is not
the life you
want to
live.”

But
I
am
alive

I’m not
weak in the
knees
over the glistening
edge of a razor
blade, my nightly
prayers don’t
include
tomorrow’s death
wish of throwing
myself off
the Brooklyn bridge


I just
painted my nails,
folded all
of my laundry,
called my dad

And told him,
“I hope you’re proud
of me.”