I have a habit of picking up hobbies,
for short bursts of time.
Poetry being the most recent example.
I do not do it, because I find myself particularly skilled.
Nor do I think I have anything to say that hasn't been said.
I do not write to garner pity from others,
or give people inner glimpses of who I am.
I construct little haikus and limericks for order among the anarchy.
I type to feel control of something.
Something deep down urges to have power.
To not be passive about everything,
to not "go with the flow".
I write to satiate that hunger, to defeat famine of the soul.
I will continue to write, until the turbulent winds of fate
******* away from this peaceful escape, back into chaos.

Looking into my beaten and bloodied hands,
covered in calluses.
I can only think that they are a reflection of me,
damaged and disfigured to the point of disrepair.
Life has taught me to live as if I am one big callus,
adapting to survive all the external pain.
External pain is something I can handle,
but what of the internal?
Trying to fight off what comes from the outside and inside,
something has got to give.
Focusing on my outward defenses, my insides swell,
while protecting my innermost ring leaves me battered and bruised.
I am unsalvageable, there's no rescuing me.
Turn back, save yourself.
I refuse to be an anchor to your balloon,
dragging you down and out of the sunshine.

Five years ago
I knew an 8th grader
who felt ashamed for who he was
who felt constantly out of place
who tossed and turned at night
     with deep enough despairs
     with ideas of throwing it all away
     with plans for those actions
     with no dreams, and only one long nightmare

Three years ago
I knew a sophomore
who finally just started to accept it
who reached out and tried
who thought everyone felt the same
     with only blank stares for replies
     with only confused "friends"
     with no family backing
     with no true "inner circle"

Last year
I knew a senior
who carried the burden alone
who perfected his mask
who finally learned how to hide
     with perceived success
     with sarcasm and quick jokes
     with pushing everyone away
     with justified fear of opening up

This year
I know a college freshmen
who is struggling for acceptance of himself
who brags of the physical scars
who is afraid to reveal the deeper ones
     with walls as big as he could muster
     with iron bars to conceal what is beneath
     with pandora's box within
     with that same scared kid locked inside.

"Hey, your backpack is really heavy!"
my friend shouts from across the classroom.
If only he knew
                            how its weight is incomparable to the one inside
                            how pain and grief and anger and loss
                            cannot be measured by mere pounds, but by metric tons.
"You really fit a lot of things in here, huh?"
Oh...if only you knew...

I'm tired.
               of trying and no return,
               of failing and frustration,
               of pretending and being someone else,
               of wishing I was different,
               of feeling trapped,
               of people,
               of the things they do to each other,
               of who I am,
               of what I am.

Tick Tock.
Another hour fades away,
Catching up isn't likely.
Trapped in quicksand,
struggling only buries deeper.
Rather my burden than yours,
you, who has so much to offer.
Tick tock.
I'm just a waste of your time.

In search of something
I don't know why.
Am I just a caged bird
that only wants to fly?
We were always told
to set our goals high,
Under the impression
that we could reach the sky.
Too often, I feel like Icarus
Getting too close to the sun, where I fry.
Is there a healthy balance,
or was it all just a lie?