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

I enter the bathtub filled with warm water
To wash away the stress and trauma.
The liquid which used to bring me so much comfort
And so much fear.

The water i used to warm my hands with,
The water i used to make food i hoped no one knew about,
The water i gave my dying dog,
The water that kept me alive.

And i sit there, thinking about it.
About everything that can happen
In the span of 4 years.
Earth is a strange place indeed,
As it is filled with water.

Leaving the house,
The memories,
Pain and happiness.
The child that used to live there.

Sometimes you leave too soon,
Sometimes you just have to.
For the good of the other people
Still locked inside.

You can't help but worry about them,
But you can't change anytning,
Now that you left.
But it is what you wanted, is it not?

You thought leaving the house would help you
But it only made it worse.
You have the life you wanted,
But at what cost?

My brain tells me to fight
But my heart says no

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

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.

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".

When he was little he promised his mommy:
"I won't be like daddy, i swear!"
But promises are often broken
Especially when the person who made it, is broken too

He tried to keep his promise
But he failed.
He failed at everything.
A failure.
Ironic, isn't it?

The little boy turned into a young man
14 years old is a big boy after all
And the little boy slowly began dissapearing.
His mommy didn't like his changes
But he couldn't help himself

Why be a lawyer when you can
Rot in bed reading psychology?
Write poems, losing yourself in your own world?
Become an actor?

But he broke the promise.
Became so fake, being an actor wasn't a problem at all.
He lost the little boy he was before.
But he was still there.

Today, he says "i'm sorry".
But it's too late.
The little boy is dead.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

Imagine a little child
Wandering through the streets all alone,
With nothing but a tiny backpack
And a toy in their hand.

No one stops to ask if they're okay,
No one wants to look at them,
Most people don't even aknowledge them.

And they only care
When the child gets hit by a car,
Dissapears from existence.
To never be seen again.

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?

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

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.

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

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Abused
Belittled
Used
Scared
Exploited

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

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 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.

You wake up.
Immediately, you check your phone.
The amount of things to do is unbearable,
But you have to get it done anyway.
Why?
You don't know.

You start doing the work by yourself,
No one there to help you yet.
As always.
You have to do everything alone.
Why?
You don't know.

You finish the work
And you feel empty.
You HAVE to do something, anything.
Why?
You don't know.

You're completely burnt out,
They ask you if you're okay.
You're not.
Why?
You don't know.

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