Why should i stay,
When everyone i love leaves anyway?
When they become a name,
Something "we don't talk about".
Why do you expect me to not do the same?

It holds your hand gently
As it leads you to your demise,
Pulling you hard
Or stopping you.
It chooses for you.

Slicibg through like a knife,
Filling you with invisible wounds
As you quietly bleed out.

Written by tge hands if pain,
Thr decaying corpse of your being,
The kind that makes you wonder
Why you weren't enough.

Being toyed with our feelings,
We function against our will
Controlled my the lucky-born
Stuck in the sweet delusion of hope.

The strange feeling,
Headaches, not being able to sleep.
I'm sure you've felt it before,
It's almost like a special kind of love
That hurts.

Goodbye.
What else should i say?
It's better for me to go,
Than to suffer and stay.

You probably wouldn't care anyway,
Just read this and throw it away,
I wrote it like it was a story,
And for that i am truly sorry.

See through their souls
And the things they like,
Write like they want to read it.
The writing style that according to them
Shall be successful.
Make it more simple,
More complex,
Whatever they like,
Make it realistic,
Or dreamy,
Happy
Or sad.
Tell a story
They would tell themselves.

Worry hurts.
A lot more than it should,
Sometimes it's different than just hoping
Someone would get home safely.
Sometimes it's worrying about someone's life.

L
   E
      A
          V
             E
                                        M                             E
  


                                                              A
                                                          L
                                                       O
                                                      N
                                                    E

The punishment,
Mental torture turning into thin red lines.
There's no one to punish me anymore,
So who should?
I look around
And see
Me.

I know that i'm here,
What i do or say,
But i don't know how or why.

I see through my eyes,
But as a completely different person,
Often not controlling myself.
Almost like living on autopilot.

I'm sorry.
For being a failure,
Not helping you enough,
Not knowing when i should help you.
I'm sorry for the things i said,
Did,
For what i put you through.
I'm sorry
For being sorry.

I wrote suicide notes like love letters,
Maybe a bit too much.
Maybe a bit too often,
With those depressing words and such.

I wrote suicide notes like love letters,
Carefully chose every word.
Desperately trying to tell you,
That to me you meant the whole world.

I wrote suicide notes like love letters,
It almost felt like a crime.
Put my pen down like a weapon,
And glance at you one last time.

The poems.
The old, brown notebook,
Filled with all of my secrets,
Big and small,
Coded into poetry.

You can't force it on yourself.
The words come by themselves,
In the most random moment,
To help you
Or doom you.
They have their own will.
A sudden wave of inspiration,
On a train, bus, school,
But when you want to write,
It tells you you're not ready.

you try to Survive,
jUst hold on a little longer,
not wanting to stay alIve,
Crying, but trying to be stronger.
i thInk you know how it fells,
Dying to never cry,
dying to not be alone,
despite the fact that you diE

Scars fading away,
Along with the memories
Of the hurt and decay,
The endless stories,
Coming back fresh,
Regaining their life on paper,
Carving into the flesh,
Disappearing later.

I wrote your name on my wrist,
All the things that we have lost,
I hated seeing you like this,
Depression gone, but at what cost?

I wrote your name on my wrist,
Only to slice right through,
You were on top of the list
Yet you never had a clue.

I wrote your name on my wrist,
Knowing it wouldn't last,
But i rewrite it sometimes,
Not letting go of the past.

Too lazy to die
Too lazy to exist
Too lazy to cry
Too lazy to persist
Too lazy to stay
Too lazy to leave
Too lazy to pray
Too lazy to achieve
Too lazy to pretend
Too lazy to say the truth
Too lazy for the end
Too lazy for your youth
Too lazy to stop
Too lazy to lie
Too lazy to do your job
Too lazy to die

I may not know you
But i know you so well.
Know you've been in heaven,
But also through hell.
And everything between,
Inside and beyond.
With so many things you have seen.
And no one to bond.


(with)

Following the path
Written ahead
Not realizing
It's all in my head.

So close,
Yet so far.
It cannot be defined,
Nor fully felt.
You're always trapped.

What if
There are
Two Gods?
One false,
Popular,
And the true one,
Known by only few.

A poet that can't write,
An artist that can't draw.
I know that with my life
I won't get too far.

I wake up every morning,
Blinded by the light.
Working all day long,
Crying every night.

Scared of my stepfather,
Scared of the whole world.
I would escape from here,
If i only could.

A young little soul
But with so much pain.
And if i die soon,
Please remember my name.

Dziecinna zabawa w kota i myszkę
O życie.
Jak uciekanie po kątach
Zamkniętej przestrzeni,
Mając nadzieję na wydostanie się
Poza niezniszczalne ściany.
I zakończenie,
Groźba i obietnica.
"Nie mów nikomu, wiesz co się stanie".

I crave it
Like a drug.
It pulls me through the words
As i type on the screen
Or notebook.
It's almost like attention-seeking
Yet i won't give up
Until i get enough.

One they stopped
Going to the playground
But you stayed.

One day they stopped listening
To their parents
Yet you obeyed.

The others grew up
When you did not.

For them it was nothing,
For you it was a lot.

A soul broken into pieces,
And given an ability to write in return.
As "compensation".
To make people relate,
Getting the tiniest bit of happiness
From their work
While dying slowly.

I could never write those.
A type of art so sweet for the soul,
Yet so hard to master and understand.
A poem written by the heart,
The hand only being a
Tool for it to communicate.
Trying to explain
Something no one truly knows.

Abused
Belittled
Used
Scared
Exploited

Hands working to get the supplies
For their master.
Used, exploited.
For other people's comfort.

They breathe the same air
As the "masters"
But are shamed for it.
For wasting the oxygen
The "master" needs.

A childish object
Lifting you
Up and down.

The air surrounding you
Like a cold but comforting embrace.
Up and down.

The wind ruffling your hair
Like a loving mother's hand would.
Up and down.

Your only friend
That won't ever leave you.
You leave it first.
Up and down.