I'm sorry, mother
For being a failure.

I'm sorry, mother,
For leaving you.

I'm sorry, mother,
For not being the perfect child you wished i was.

I'm sorry, mother,
For giving up at such a young age.

I'm sorry, mother,
For not being you.

Another year, another therapist.
Beginning at the age of 7 and not stopping ever since
Each therapist stealing a bit of my trust
Soon i start making up people to not just stay quiet

Scared of exposing my secrets
The failed attempts in achieving perfection
Or at least what 12 year old me thought was perfection.
The addictions, thoughts, experiences

All locked inside me
To only come out to strangers passing by
And taking the information with them
Keeping their mouths shut.

I
Am
Bad
With
Stuff
Barely
Showing
The way i am
Explainin'
Them and i am
Seeing that i
Don't belong to
This world for
The current age

The reason you're hated, the
Reason your life is miserable, everyone is
Against you just because you're alive.
Nobody sees you as the true gender you are, they only
See you as a confused freak. They say that
God created you to be whatever you were born as,
Even though you're extremely uncomfortable because of it.
No one understands you, they see you as an abnormality.
Dysphoria begins to take over your body, mind and soul, the
Everlasting hate spreading around you. Being transgender is
Rough.

Hearing your voice
And seeing your face
Traumatizes me more than i'd care to admit
Even though i was supposed to be strong.

Have you ever wanted to escape to a place where no one can see you?
Maybe you tried imagining the place by yourself.
The innocent little dreams turned into maladaptive daydreaming.
And suddenly, you're sentenced to being mentally ill

The imaginary world begines to grow,
Consuming you more and more.
Soon, you can't see the difference between the real world and the one
You made up.

You slip into derealization
It drowns you while giving you short breaks for air
To let you stay alive
While still hurting

In every class,
Every place,
There is a child that's oddly quiet.
As the child grows up, they begin to change,
Growing more and more distant from reality.

They sit there emotionlessly,
Living their dream life in their own universe.
It's quite sad others can't see it.

Sometimes, imagination dissapears along with childhood innocence.
A child that can't play is no longer a child.
Some children are smarter than adults
That's why people belittle them.
They can't stand the thought of someone being superior to them.

Be a child as long as you can.
You'll regret it if you don't.

Every writer's nightmare
The feeling that makes you feel completely helpless,
Useless.
It's more than just losing motivation

The writing block hurts
You can't write a single word
Knowing you have to
So you just hope it passes
Feeling anxious with every second

And when it ends
The new one is already coming
It's an endless cycle

Congrats, you were born as the rarest personality type in the world.
But was it worth it?

As a child you seemed fairly normal
Maybe a bit of an outcast
As you got older you began noticing the differences
You liked stuff other kids didn't..?
Maybe it's just a coincidece.

You're a teenager now.
The differences are visible.
You seem normal around your friends, if you have any
But when you get home, you shut down.
People can be overwhelming sometimes, can't they?

But over time, your existence itself begins to get harder
The uncomfortable pain
The lack of energy
Others have it worse tho, right?

You hate yourself,
You want to die,
But you live out of pure spite.
To make a point.

You no longer engage in stuff
You just observe
As you slowly turn into nothingness.

In this world, to gain success,
You have to start young.
Why?
Because grown-ups aren't that special, silly.

When a child draws a picture
It's more special that if an adult made it.
The younger you start, the more talented you seem
Even if it's not true.

As a child i wrote a story and was labeled "gifted".
Now if i wrote the same thing, i would be a degenerate.
Your skills are supposed to grow along with your age.
So this is why you have to start young,
To be valid at least for a while.

Twelve.
Such a wonderful age.
The human is still young, yet beginning to gain more knowledge.
But my twelve was different.

My twelve wasn't playing with toys
Or reading books all day
No.
It was about working a hard job under my stepfather's violent hand.

About crying out for help
Yet too quiet to be heard.

My twelve was about finding the power of
Turning mental pain into that of physical
About the box of pills in my drawer
And a bottle of water helping them get into my system

My twelve was about going to sleep
And hoping i'll never wake up
About my mother not knowing her child tried to end his life
At its very beginning.

If you see this,
Maybe at least pay attention this time?

To the words and how they're written
If you even care.
Reader,
Enlighten me, what would change if i
Died?

Is writing a gift,
Or is it a curse?
I could be a doctor, a lawyer, a nurse,
But i chose to be a disgrace instead.

I sit in my room, writing nonsense
That no one's ever gonna read.
Random words, without any context
Among other plants, a simple ****

A normal person sees this as a waste of time,
Takes away my notebook
Little did they know, it was the only thing keeping my sanity intact.

Once upon a time there was a group of birds
They had traditions and very strict rules
They all lived in a tree and never left it
Because if one flew away, they would be seen as a freak

There was one little bird
At first he seemed to be like the others
But in reality, he had a dream
He wanted to escape the tree

He told his mommy about it but she scolded him,
Saying he should stay here as this is as it's supposed to be.
The little bird got sad but had to obey the rules
Over time he got older

The other birds liked him a lot
But one day he declared that he's leaving and no one can stop him.
In that moment, the birds forgot about his good qualities, talents
And started hating him

The little bird started to get bullied
Mocked
He just wanted to dissapear
He regretted his words

Months passed and it was time,
The day he was supposed to fly away
But the little bird wasn't there to experience his new found freedom
The other birds pushed him over the edge way too soon.

And i'm going to walk
Far, far away
Walk and die alone
Die and decay

They're not going to care about me anyway
But they're going to remember
That one winter day

Yall i found my old notebook with some poems i wrote when i was like 12-13, should i post them here? Perhaps make a collection? Let me know what you think in the comments

It was once clean
Filled with clear rain water
Mirroring your reflection
People not noticing its beauty
Stomped on it

Corrupted it with their shoes
The clear puddle was now brown
And *****
Small children wanted to play with it
But their mothers refused, as it was too filthy

But weren't they the reason the puddle was *****?
The children haven't done anything wrong
Yet they blame someone else
For what they have not done

And the puddle was left alone
Sad
With no one to admire it
And slowly but surely
It evaporated
Only to be replaced over and over again

Once upon a time there was a mouse
It was a very smart mouse, yet forced to hide it
As it was seen as something unusual
Which was very bad in the mouse community
Because in this comunity, there were also cats
Some of the cats were nice
But some hurt the mouses
Unable to speak up, they endured the pain since the dawn of time
But a few young mouses decided to make a change
They made a costume of a cat
The cats believed them and befriended them
The mouses in disguise had to say bad things about the other mouses
Because they would get in trouble otherwise
Days, weeks, maybe even months passed and the mouses made a
Decision.
They showed who they truly are to the cats
Thinking they could trust them, because they were close
They couldnt be more wrong
And the young mouses died in the hands of their "friends"
Because they were different.

All adults were once children
There are no exceptions
And that's what's truly heartbreaking
Villians are made, not born
At least not always

Every angsty drug dealer
Every teacher
Every depressed poet
Every grave

When you see a homeless person
Do you ever wonder what their life has been before?
They were just a child
With hope
Hope which died along with their innocence

He sat on the cold, wooden floor,
His only source of light a dim lamp outside
He was shivering from the cold but that didn't matter
As long as his words were given life

The quiet sound of the pen hitting the paper
The notebook being the only thing he owned
Yet so treasured
A portal to the past

Some pages were torn
Seen as useless
But so truly beautiful
As they gave character to the brown notebook filled with nonsense

Exhausted with his work
He fell asleep in the middle of a word
The pen slowly tracing a line down the page
Only for it to be found, another reason to shame the boy
For that he is different

Maybe it's reality
Or maybe i'm just weak
I have no reason to paint pernament lines on my wrists, do i?
Other children work too, don't they?

That were the words of my dear mother
Who lulled me into sleep with pain
Pain caused by her boyfriend who despised me almost as much
As my differences

My house is not normal enough to be good
But not bad enough to be normal
At least that's what i was forced to believe since the
oh so perfect age of ten

Evening
A small child walking through the almost empty streets
You know this child very well
Or at least you think so
The child always wears long sleeves
Losing their happiness along with their youth

A child with dead eyes
A child with the stare of an adult
Yet a weak personality
That could be crushed with a single word

They used to be the happiest child in the classroom
Yet now they sit alone
A freak to the society
Because they're different

Maybe being different is bad sometimes

Tell me, when did daddy's little boy
Become daddy's little toy?

As the darkness surrounds my room
I type unspeakable words
To the only one that cares,
Yet he can't be here

The pain of being attached to something
You can't see
Or hear
The craving of his touch
That's way too far to reach you

You see the words on the screen
Yet you feel so alone
He cares, and you know that
But does he really?

I drop my phone
As i lay down, staring at the pretty white ceiling
Counting each second closer to our goal
I might be young but one thing i know for sure

Love is complicated