Dear Poet,

I do not know you; yet I know exactly who you are.
I do not know your name; I know the verbs and the adjectives and the metaphors that can sprout in your mind like a flower ready to bloom at two o'clock in the morning. You're afraid, I know. You're afraid to open up to another person because you've been let down time and time again. You find it hard to trust people. No one knows how you feel except for that precious notepad and your favourite pen. Replace the paintbrush with a pencil and the canvas with some paper, and darling, you are an artist. Your world is coloured through the scribbled words in the margins of your study sheets, and the inspiration you get when you discover something amazing. The inspiration to write. To write about what's good in this world, to write about what's bad, about what makes you happy and what makes you sad.
You are not defined by your name. You are not defined by what others think about you. You are not defined by the way you see yourself in the mirror, or the way you interact with others. Instead, you are defined by your favourite colours. You are defined by the beautiful moments you have learned to capture in a single photograph. You are defined by the stories you tell about that day when you were 10 years old. You are defined by the songs you listen to when you're home alone. The movies that you watch; especially the ones that can make you break down in tears no matter how many times you've seen it. But most importantly, you are defined by the words you write. The string of thoughts that you could never say out loud. The words you should have said to that certain person can be told through your poems, and the words that you shouldn't have said can be scrubbed out with an eraser in the fraction of a second. See, this is why you matter.
You matter because you are a poet. You are not just an ordinary person; you have a passion like no other. You see things that the world does not; like the beauty of a sunset or the meaning behind a song or the sadness hidden through a smile. You over-analyse everything, but that's okay because you are a poet. You can find a reason to write just because of something someone said to you, or a good day, or a bad day. In fact, you cherish the bad days because those are the times when your writing shines like the sun coming up after a long day of rain.
You are so beautiful, and everyone can see it but you. You look in the mirror and count each and every flaw you see. You wish you could be prettier, you wish you could be happier, you wish you could be like the popular kids at your school. You wish you could play sports instead of hiding out in your room all day writing a bunch of crap. But it's not crap... It is the most pure and absolutely extraordinary thing in this world. Why? Because you are a poet. Your words are who you are. Don't you dare become popular; don't you dare change who you are. You are a poet. You are unique. You are so, so beautiful.
Hands stained with ink, pencil behind your ear, notebook hidden in your back pocket. No make-up, hair pulled up, wearing your comfiest hoody. You don't have brand name clothing, or an expensive car. You don't go out partying, or eat at fancy restaurants. Why? Because you are a poet. You drink tea, not wine. You wear sweatpants, not dresses. Converse, not stilletos. You are not a model. You are not an actress. You are not like the others.
You are not outgoing. In fact, you are extremely quiet and shy. But you are kind, so so kind. You care about others, not yourself. You are the listener, not the talker. You are the nurturer. You are the lover of books, of literature, of English. You are a poet.
I do not know you. But I hope to meet you one day, I hope to share my poems with you and cry over sappy love stories and get drunk off tea with you. Why? Because you are a poet. And so am I.

Sincerely yours,
Another Poet

Today, I will be brave.
I will admit to the fact that I still haven't found that happiness I've been searching for.
It could be the fact that I haven't looked hard enough, or maybe I've just been looking too hard.
It could be the fact that there's a hormone in our bodies called serotonin, but my therapist says that I don't produce enough and that's why I have this thing that she calls depression.

So I take pills to make me feel better and that might be weird, you can think that if you want because the truth is that I think I'm weird too. Sometimes I think my weirdness is good, I can make people laugh if I really want to and I think that's pretty cool but there's also a bad weirdness to me that makes me feel really sad even though my life truly isn't all that bad but I can't help it. I can't just tell myself that everything's going to be okay because sometimes I don't even think I believe that anymore.

But today, I will be brave.
I will admit to the fact that yes, I have scars. But you know what? I have a birth mark on my right leg. I have freckles on my arms, I have ten fingers and a heart that pumps blood into my lungs and my lungs help me breathe. I have brown eyes and approximately one hundred and fifty hairs growing out of my eyelids that protect them from dust.

Yes, maybe I have purposely tried to hurt myself but so what? People say that whatever doesn't **** you only makes you stronger. Well I must be pretty **** powerful because every day is a war between life and death and I may not think that I'm beautiful, or smart, or worthy, but I have a broken heart that's still beating and a terrifying mind that is still able to think about the children in Africa and the people suffering from cancer and the lonely girl in my class that I wish I had the courage to talk to and tell her that we are all human. We may not feel that we deserve to be alive but we have blood coursing through our veins and purity in our souls and mouths that are capable of speaking every single language in the world and brains that hold an infinite amount of knowledge and bones that allow us to move and hearts that can love.

So please, be brave.
Put the gun down. Step away from the bridge, throw the pills away, untie the knot and stay with us. Use your bones to lift your hand and place it to the left of your chest and feel the vibration of the most important ***** in your body pulsing, keeping you alive. And that, my friend, is called purpose. You are still here despite everything that's ever happened to you. You survived the day when your best friend stopped calling and the day you waited two hours for that person who never showed up and the day you got picked up early from school to have your parents watch you get beat up on the playground and that's the day when they realized that their daughter is a loser but it's okay because you survived. You ignored the monster in your mind that is constantly knocking on doors but never being let in because you had the courage to say "stop. I deserve to be happy. I deserve to feel good about myself."

You are not a freak. You are not a loser. You are not fat, you are not ugly, you are not stupid. You are sixty percent water, sixty-five percent oxygen, eighteen percent carbon and one hundred percent human. Do not hate your body, you're beautiful. Do not hate your scars. Love them. Learn from them. Be the person who can say "yes, life was a battle and I didn’t come out untouched. I was beaten down and torn apart and bleeding from the skin and the heart. But I won." You conquered the bloodiest war, and you are so brave.

Yes, life is full of grief, and tragedy, and so much pain. Life is full of evil people and sickness and days where all you want to do is just get out of this place with so much hatred and cruelty and unfairness. But I have seen someone helping a stranger on the sidewalk, children holding doors open for the elderly, and love. So much love. And that's gotta be enough. We have to find a reason. We have to discover that one thing that will save us; that one good thing in this world that will give us hope. Hope that some day, things will be better.

But today, we will be brave.
Braver than yesterday, yet not as brave as we will be tomorrow. We will wake up with a smile on our face, and we will look in the mirror and say to ourselves:

"We are not our parents, we are not our siblings, or our teachers, or our friends, or our enemies. We are only ourselves. But one day, we will become doctors, we will become writers and lawyers and activists and dancers and rock stars. We will be mothers and fathers and lovers. We will not be perfect. But one day, our bruises will heal and our scars will fade and our pain will lessen and our smiles will become genuine. We will admit to the fact that bad days happen, but we will have so many good days and those are the ones that matter. We will not be our past, we will not be our mistakes, we will not be our fallen tears or our heart aches. We will be human, and one day, we will change the world."