Artists are not people who draw, or write, or make music.

Poets are not just people who write, poets are observers, poets see the beauty and tragedy of life and put it into words.

Those who draw are not people with pencils and paper, people who draw have figured out how they see the world, and how to recreate their views on paper.

Dancers are not just people who can move to music, dancers are people who spell out stories with their being.

Painters are not people with paint and a canvas, painters are the people singlehandedly making the world brighter.

Artists are people with leaky faucets.

this is a shout out to the kids who haven’t cracked a smile since last summer.
To the kids who’s wrists turned to cutting boards
and stomachs intentionally went empty.

This is the anthem for saturday nights spent on the couch just asking yourself “why”
For hours spent thinking that it’s your fault your parents split and theres nothing you can do.

For the kids who drag a blade across their wrist and carve grand canyons into their wrists although its still not the same.

A song for the kids who crack their knuckles as a distraction from the glares they get from across the classroom in fifth period science.

A harmony to the kids who are trying so hard to fit in but cant seem to get the hold of the right words to stick on their tongue so instead the wrong words slip out of their mouthes and roll into a ball of embarrassment.

A five star dinner served to his four friends which left him three years later and two years later he was just one kid by himself fending off the monsters we call classmates all alone.

Another sleeping pill for the boy who prays with his eyes shut but cant sleep because his eyes have already been closed for hours.

A brace for the broken and the weak as the week drags on to the point where every word that ends in the letter y makes you want to pull your hair out.

A poem dedicated to the kids who cant fend for themselves in the jungle.
Its a hard existence.
But we can make it through.

My lunchtime consists of either not eating or stuffing my face till the words "fat ***" crawl out of my friends mouth. The words sting me like a bee or a metaphor that's been overused like...being stung by a bee. Let's think about this for a minute though, think about whether or not I should feel guilty for my pleasures. I started starving myself sophomore year, the words breakfast lunch and dinner made me want to puke out the hatred I have for a body whose done nothing to me. At one point I tried to love myself, tried to show that food isn't the enemy it's just the voices in my head that tell me it is. "You should lose weight." "You're out of shape" "Fat ***", these count for each stretch mark I have on my body that crept up slowly and silently on me like a murderer to his victim. One was from my dad, two was from my friends, three was from my mom cause she said I was so handsome, four cause I don't deserve to eat, five cause I want to be pretty. Six because guys like me don't get to be pretty.
   It doesn't end easily or quickly. I've gone from overweight to underweight to a healthy weight to a weight where I pull back the flabs of skin so I can count my ribs one by one again. I've even gotten to the point where if somebody tells me I look good all I can think is that they're lying. I see a difference between fat and fat, the words itself form the gelatinous image you imagine when thinking of them, sounding sour as it comes off my tongue. You don't have to be a girl to have an eating disorder, a ****** up concept that society hasn't quite grasped yet.

Dear Best friend,

You know who you are. You are the beautiful girl in the back of the class, who keeps to herself, but is still strangely likable. You are the girl with the piercing blue eyes and dark, dark sense of humor.

Dear Best Friend,

I know you literally are always willing to listen, whether it is talking about our mutual crush on that guy in our favourite class, or complaining about society, or my parents, or when I just need to talk about the weather to distract myself from the looming fear of everything going wrong.


Dear Best Friend,

I still remember when you first told me about your depression. I had always sort of known, but hearing you say it out loud, I honestly didn’t know what to do, because I don’t want you to end up like me, I don’t want you to feel like you have to turn to sharp inanimate objects, I don’t want your world to be dark, hopeless, I don’t want you to fall because depression is a slippery *****, trust me. I don’t want you to forever be broken. I don’t want you to be scared.

I just don’t want you to end up as ****** up as me.

Dear Best Friend,

I know I’m not perfect, I’m not even close, and I ***** up... A lot. But I will do what ever I can to ALWAYS be there for you. I will always be the dorky, idiotic, annoying sidekick.

Dear Best Friend,

You are beautiful, don’t let anyone, ever tell you otherwise. Especially not some 12 year old boy with a stupid haircut.

You are short, there is no denying that, but so is Billie Joe Armstrong and we still think he is the hottest thing since wood stoves.

You have blue eyes, that I know you think are weird, but they are like oceans only not as dark.

Your hair is almost as straight as the members in half the bands we listen to, but each curl falls in it’s own special place

You are beautiful, stunning, breath-taking, and every other synonym for that word.

Dear Best Friend,

I’m sorry you have to put up with me when I am like this. I know I should just bottle it up, but for whatever reason it always seems like I can’t stop the words from escaping. I’m sorry, I am so so sorry that you have to deal with me.

Dear Best Friend,

I really want to smack you upside the face with a brick sometimes. But I won’t, because I am more scared of you hitting back than I am of doctors (and that’s saying something)

Dear Best Friend,

I promise that I will always be there as long as you need me, whether it’s in the middle of the night or when I am thousands of miles away with timezone barriers between us, just call me. When you are scared, call me. When what you are scared of is yourself, call me. When you need a friend, call me. When you want to gush about your new boyfriend, call me. When you want to just chat, call me.

Dear Best Friend,

At this point I think of you more like a sister that a friend.

So, Dear Sister, I love you so much. Thank you for showing me that even the darkest nights have a sunrise, and that those sunrises are always the most spectacular.

I look at my little sister. She's beautiful and tragic,  like a metaphor. Or a cigarette or an odd cat. I look at her and see the same emptiness inside of me, only there's more hope for her. How do you tell somebody that you care for them? I don't think I've ever really cared for many people in a sibling kind of way. That requires an emotional connection that maybe I just lack. Like a wire in my head that was cut early on or misplaced in my head.

   Dear sister, I write you a poem. A letter. A song. I'm losing my mind, I'm going insane. Knowing that all I care about could just disappear within an instant. I don't want to lose my friends don't want to lose my sister. I was never close to my brothers it isn't fair if I lost you too. What is it you think of? What do you think about? I see you playing the piano and wish I could do that too. I'd ask you to teach me but I'm too shy to do that. I don't know if anyone's said it, but I'm proud of you. I see you trying your best and it's okay to do that. Take baby steps at a time cause the world is cruel but it seems to like babies to maybe you can trick it. I know, I've tried. Am trying. Trying harder?
   I don't know what it is I really want to tell you. You should know though I love you. I have a hard time telling people that. Have a hard time expressing feelings without suddenly wanting to cry or rip my arm to pieces. You'll be okay sister dear, I know you will.