This isn't a poem.
Before my sister went to prison, she hid a treasure map for me in her room in a place she knew only I would look, the treasure map was in the form of a scavenger hunt around my city to different places where she left mementos of the times we spent together, a picture of us, and a thing to lead me to another place. Today I found the last place, in my own house. Believe it or not this was the hardest one to find, so hard, I spent two weeks looking for it. Once I found it, it was a little box that I had made for her when I was six. I opened the box and in it contained a letter and a black chained necklace. In the letter she apologized for all the stuff she'd done to me in the past, and saying she would be a better sister when she got out.
Seriously Mary,
I love you.

He is a seashell and I am the ocean, but it is not his fault.

He can only hold so many grains of salt or sand, he can only catch so many china       tears before they hit the floor and shatter into a billion disappointed slivers, never to be collected or krazy-glued.

It is not his fault.

In today’s society, it is preferred to be flat.

                     So he is blessed, my skipping stone.

It’s the people like me—the bottomless ravines—

That get lost in ourselves
                         That vacuum up lost puppies and paper cuts and hold them with us                                        so tightly that we’re guaranteed to spill over.

But we don’t. No, not even the slightest.

We just get deeper and deeper to make room for the cold water.
       We build secret gardens to plant poisonous roots and we hide them in our green teas and salads.
               We draw lemniscate maps that loop treasure hunters around our hearts, searching forever.
                          We shun the sturdy carp and send love letters to fickle anglers and glumfish.
                                       We refuse to die in our sleep.

His favorite drink is water and his favorite color is blue.
     My favorite drink is whiskey and my favorite color
Is alabaster when it’s raining,
                                     sea foam green if I’m trying,
                                                                               and violet when I’m in the mood.

I'm screaming and waiting for someone to hear
But nobody listens, in this room full of people
Nobody cares, in this small, tiny world.
Most of all, Nobody wants to.
 
Looking at this dark storm is too much to bear
And I'm waiting for that crack of lightning 
Just to see if there's any such thing as light anymore
Because there's no air for any fire.
 
Searching for all these answers I can't reach
And I just don't know anything at all
Because I'm far too young to experience this
I mean, I'm only sixteen
 
I'm trying not to cry about how much I miss home
But I think back and remember the smiles
And how they're so far away now
Just pacing out of my reach
 
I don't even know how to word my feelings anymore
Just a scribble of jibberish on this keyboard
Waiting for the night to end so the torture can resume
Waiting for that final breath that'll never reach me
 
I'm just curled in this ball to find warmth
Because outside this dark room is much more black
The air is so thick with this sadness
I wish I could fall through and forget it all
 
I've lost control because I don't know what's real anymore
And these soft whispered words aren't reaching my mind
Any melody is far too fast for me to handle
This music haunts me to sleep.
 
Trying to restrain myself from this growing need
I've lost track of everything rational
Trying to return to the normal plane I'm supposed to be on
Nothing physical makes sense anymore.
 
I'm trying to leave my mind here, in this place
Something so familiar yet unrecognizable past this hurt
I can't stay here much longer before I fade away completely
I'm trying, I'm trying, just let me be.
 
I'm yearning for that comfortable feeling,
Like when it was warm and happy, no sadness or scars
Because this house isn't a home at all
And I think I'm going insane.

I'm calling and nobody seems to hear
nobody listens, in this room full of people
Nobody cares, in this small world.
and most of all, nobody ever wants to.

Sea is the sister of dear Mr. Skies

Who looks upon her temper with kindly grey eyes

And listens to the music of her cries.

Your reputation
is usually a result of your actions
involving others;
Sometimes,
it does not accurately reflect who you are,
just how others see you.
Other times,
it is social Karma for the those
of indiscretion.

Your reputation
both precedes you
and follows you;
so long as people know people.

Sometimes you earn your reputation,
other times it is handed to you
by Life and her turmoil.
In either case,
it's usually up to you
to perpetuate it.