Its tough
growing up in a world
when you never feel like
you're good enough.
When people walk out
so frequently
and almost certainly
where you just come to expect it.

Its hard
not having someone
who you can go to
in a time of need.
When everywhere you look
people shy away
only out for their
own selfish ambitions.

Its difficult
trying to be a kid,
being carefree
not having a care in the world.
When you're ****** with responsibility
of making sure you
will be warm, fed, safe
only after your sister is the same.

Its exhausting
making sure you
keep walking on eggshells,
fearful of messing up.
When making a mistake,
only results
in disappointed stares,
if you're lucky.

Its painful
getting whipped and belted
as you feel the flesh
being ripped away from your bones.
When you would
do almost anything to make it stop,
crying out for help but nobody comes.
You're alone.

Its eternal
when the savagery
goes far beyond
mere fragments of memories.
When repressing and blocking them out
doesn't work,
little things, big things
make you jump, flinch, hesitate.

Its saddening
knowing that I'm not the only one
that grew up this way,
its some kind of trend.
When there's a line
that people blatantly cross
leaving fading scars
along with haunting nightmares.

I'm not exactly the sharpest crayon in the box,
but hey,
at least I'm in the box.
If only sometimes.
More frequent than not,
I'm content to break out,
do my own thing,
but really, its just
running away.
Wether it be
making jokes so that nothing is too serious,
keep my distance,
so they won't matter,
because then it can't hurt.
I've been worn down to the nub,
as dull an indigo Crayola as you've ever seen,
label peeling off, stepped on, cracked.

It's true that each color has its own flare,
its own brilliance,
its own
beauty,
if only to the artist overseeing.
So while I may not always know
the plan God has in store for me,
who am I to stop resisting,
even if the design
is still an empty page
waiting to be explored.

All parents affect their children.
It cannot be helped.
Youth, like tempered iron,
reflect the ability of the craftsmen .
Some kids grow strong, others crack, a few shatter childhoods
completely into broken little pieces,
beyond repair.
The greatest tragedy,
is that these discarded pieces
truly appreciate what often goes taken for granted.
They look on with forlorn eyes,
as people laugh and scoff
because they aren't perfect.
Because they aren't the same.
They try to play it off as best they could,
feigning joy and smiles in public,
but behind closed doors,
they desperately try to pick up all the pieces,
gluing them together with super glue,
only to watch it all crumble apart.
Over.
And over.

You can never over estimate
the power of communication.
Words have such a profound impact
on people.
But what I find,
is that the unspoken word
speaks loudest.

You think that I don't try,
that I've given up.
That isn't true,
I wouldn't still be here if I did.
Lying in bed,
every night,
I have to convince myself
that tomorrow will be different,
that somehow I'll find the strength to push through,
that life is worth living.

Everyday,
I think about what it'd be like
to not have to worry anymore
to not have to pretend anymore
to not have to lie to others anymore
to not have to lie to myself anymore.

I have hit rock bottom before,
like I told you.
How that fifteen or so ounce
revolver
felt like the weight of the entire world.
How squeezing the
trigger
felt like everything finally going away.
How the sound of the
blank
made me question if its what I should be doing.

I try, everyday
just to keep my head above water.
As you already know,
I can't swim.

I am no stranger to pain,
let's be real, who is?
Everyone has their own trials and tribulations
to overcome.
Overcoming is the key part, though.
Pain, whether it be
a second, minute, hour, day, or even a year,
is very much so
temporary.
Quitting and giving up lasts
forever.
Just knowing this isn't enough,
as my inner circle would tell you,
I'm as guilty as they come with losing hope.

Even when my hands are calloused from digging,
and the hot sun baked my skin, boiling my blood,
I feel cold,
distant,
alone.
That is, I did, then along came some friends.
Who saw something in me that I'm still not sure exists,
pulled me out of that hole, ripped that shovel from my hands.
I'm not going to sit here and lie to you,
it hasn't all been unicorns and rainbows,
as I occasionally stumble back into that hole.
But each and every time,
those same hands reach down and pull me back out.
Isolation doesn't show strength, but an inability to be weak.

Some people have a natural feel for the spotlight,
they know how to handle others focusing on them.
Then there are countless people that are more content
in fading to the back, allowing others to shine.
For we are the forgotten sons and daughters,
sacrificing our sunshine to help more prominent flowers flourish.
At least, that's how I deceived myself.
Instead of just being okay with fading,
somehow that was all I did.
As I sit on my throne of shadows, without a speck of light
near me, no one else around, I question if it was all worth it.
If  labeling myself "forgotten" to give everyone else
an opportunity to glimmer in this world,
was as selfless as I try to make it sound, or just how life is.
The fade is a slow process, but a constant as well.
At this very moment, less and less of me remains,
I can only speculate what happens when I'm all gone.
Then, I truly will be forgotten.