It's 3 in the morning,
You still don't love me
And I am too alone
Listening to sad songs
Waiting for a miracle

It's 3 in the morning,
I still want to die
Because no one really cares
In the end I'll be
Just another sad story

It's 3 in the morning,
But nothing feels right
Because I am drained and empty

I wanted to write a poem of you
But couldn't find the words.
I'm so distressed, too depressed
And now my stomach hurts.

I could not tell you how I feel
Even if I tried.
I turn around and life's upsidedown;
I really want to cry.

Too many things I want to say
But I always stop myself.
So I won't get deep, there is no need.
We'll only keep jokes off the shelf.

I wanted to write a poem of you
But couldn't find the words.
So here it goes, I suppose:
You are my favorite nerd.

i used to be more happy. i used to make them notes made up of hearts and "i love yous". i used to take the time to make cds of songs that reminded me of him, or spray my perfume on my favorite bear so he could have something to hold at night. i used to never fail to send a "goodmorning sunshine" text or never hesitate to pour my heart out. i wasnt afraid to dream of a future together or write them poetry. but one by one they picked the petals off of me and left me hallow and bare. and the only thing i have to look foward to is maybe a "goodbye" when the next decides to leave.*

my, you're so unbareable

Fragile world,
How I love to watch
You spin away.

Imagine a scene
Tiny me, at the age of nine
Understanding I don't wish to live.
I tried to commit suicide
For the next 4 years time.
Picture a girl
Near genius; she's bright.
For some reason staying up
Crying all night.
Not doing well in school
Nobody thinks she's cool
And my dad just says
"Quit acting like a baby, you fool."
In my high school years
I just accepted sadness
As a part of my life.
Grew too tired of the
"why aren't you all right?"
and the occasional
"you're too smart to be acting that way"
Create in your head
Me, who is passionate
About poetry. Only because
It became my method of venting.
For some reason i thought
I was a burden, to all of my friends.
Better sad than disturb them
With my troubles.
It's the mess my room is
And the disintrest to everything
The self hate, sleeping late, and fatigue
That makes up the depression in me.
It's nobody understanding why I cry
Or why I don't take the time
To talk about my problems.
It's the not knowing myself
And looking at my reflection in the mirror
Only to say to her
"You're so ******* pathetic."

Momma never taught me
                                                                        how to mend a broken heart.

She is too comfortable
With how well the noose
Sits around her neck
Waiting for her to
Finally release built up
Agony.