"Just cheer up! you ungrateful brāt!"


would you tell a cancer patient to just get better?

coffee at 4,
with basketball boy.

"my treat"
god you're adorable.

his white smile was pure and innocent,
and his tongue did not hold back any lies.

his giggle,
his smile,
his hugs,
his everything,

is amazing.

he is perfectly imperfect.

when he asked he out to the coffee shop,
i caught first date chills.

has it ever rained blue so long you started to get used to it?

i've gotten caught in a blue flood and right then and there i had to learn to swim.
on my own.
i pulled my self to shore.

has it ever sun shined yellow and you didn't know how to think or act because you've been stuck in the blue rain for years?

i think thats when it becomes frighting,
when you feel more comfertable in the pouring rain
than do you in the yellow sunshine.

maybe thats when it floods black tar,
******* you deeper in the sadness,

but, it is not sadness, it's almost a sad numbness

and tar slowly takes over my body leaving a black thick layer over top of my porcelain exteroir.

it slowly takes over my whole body,

it's slowly getting worse.

it hurts.

how adults deal with their problems?

do they cry in their beds so their children wont hear?
do they drink away their problems every night?

do you pay for alcohol with your maxed out credit card?
do you work and work until your mind wanders to stress instead of sadness?

do you drink tea in your bathtub with the temperature just under boil?
do you put on a fake smile everyday?

do you ignore your problems or do you run away from them?




how do i handle my mind in 10 years when i'm an adult?

when you're already dead inside,
there is nothing left to live for.

you shot in the heart
with four simple words,

"i don't love you"

you tried fix it with a "sorry"

but that was like putting a band-aid over a bullet wound.

we don't have to be insane to be insanely in

L
O
V
E

when my poetry paints a picture in your head,
what do you see?

Russian dance,
Russian dancer.

perfect movement,
timing jointly along with your group.

charming steps,
do not fall.

long red dresses,
nylon tights under.

impress the elders with your complicated,
yet beautiful dance.

dance like a beautiful Russian doll.

have you ever gotten your heart broken?

i have,
it was terrible.

it was so unbearable that i shut it off.

i turned my emotions off.
i gave up happiness to not feel pain.

i couldn't handle feeling.

so i thought,

the best way not to get your heart broken is to pretend you don't have one.

do you hear the happiness?
our hearts fuelled on our smiles.
our ***** converse on our feet all jumping up and down
to the same upbeat music.
do you hear us? we're happy today.

we're pretending that we're so cool,
with our terrible dancing and music

but we keep doing what we do.

we were ballistic until the sun rose.

jumping around to the same five lyric-less songs
not dancing, jumping.

our society is messed up,
but for that moment,
that night,

we were okay.

we lived with nothing but our hearts upon our sleeves.
our smiles weren't fake that night,

just 68 thirteen year olds having the time of their life with out their parents for 4 days.

there was no drinking or ****,
we were high off of each others energy.
we were feeding off it.

i felt alive.

i saw the world in colour.

i am not talented.

for i only write amongst the depressed vocabulary
and never touch upon the list of happiness.

my poems are truthful,
they do not lie.

i shan't write about glee,
i should not ruin it,
and i shan't lie.

my poems are identical,
but fraternal.

same topic.
different verse.

but i cannot write about joyous days when they
were days of despair at my hands?

i am not talented.

i loved him so much,
that i let him crush

my heart

over and
over and
over again.

until there was only nothing left.

but what do you have he even
crushes your

nothing?

happy valentines day,

to all the amazing poets x

little girls don't play with dolls.
they paint.

deep paintings and the thin.

a blade, her brush.

her wrist, the canvas.

the little girl only used red when she painted,

and her paintings would never leave her body.

they would stay there, reminding her of every emotion she
illustrated on her pale body.

the girl was a painter,
a true artist.

never had she wanted to become one,
but she did.

little girls don't play with dolls.
they paint.

what happened?
what happened to the sun being bright and beautiful?
when it kissed my shoulders while i ran with my mates
around the playground.

what happened to the times where protection meant wearing a helment?
when i didn't need worry about being a female,
being catcalled or molested.

where my only care in the world was being first in a race to the
school line.

what happened to the times where i could eat and not worry about the calories i'm eating?
what happened to not caring about still being able to fit a fist between my thigh gap.

why did i have to grow up?
i've lost my child-likeness.
my innocence left after i hit puberty.

society says you can't be sad.
s a d.
s
  a
    d
   a
s.

what happened to being able to cry and not judged.

what happened to the times where i actually wanted to live?
see to world.

what happened to me?

the title caught you didn't it?

you see, suicide is like a book.

you don't seem to care about the rising actions such as
self harm, anorexia, self hate.

you only care about the plot.

but, how can you be so concerned about suicide and want it to stop if you can't recognize or care about the signs that lead to it?

if you don't want our books to close early, why do you;

accuse us of faking,
saying we want attention because we talk about our illness,
not give us support and love?





suicide.



still caught your attention.

confusion is my main thought.

why did you do this to me?
why me?

my stomach keeps twisting and turning at the
thought of what you do.

you are disgusting.

i want to scream and cry,
but i just remember you.

calling me beautiful and such.

you are sick.

why me?
why me?
why me?


why would you, how could you?

i haven't met you,
i haven't spoken a word to you,

and yet you leave me here numb.

feeling left without pureness,
left feeling unholy.


am i an object?

am i an object you can objectify?

i am i crazy out mind
because of this situation i'm in?

i feel like the walls are closing in on me,
i needed closure but not this type of it.

i can't breathe,
i can't breathe,

i'm drowning in thin clear air,
i'm panicking heavily.

hitched breathe,
shaking hands,
sweating palms,
blurred vision.

i'm screaming
i'm screaming
i'm screaming
i'm screaming.


what is?
have i lost my sanity?
am i going insane?

am i crazy out mind
because of the situation i'm in?

she was like the moon.

a bright light with imperfections
but,
like the moon she had a dark side.
it was darker then black.

it was cold.
no one liked it there so they'd only stay when it was sunny.

she didn't want to be the moon,
the girl wanted to be the sun.

everyone loved the sun, bright, happy and vibrent.

she would give anything to the sun.
but,

she was like the moon.

why do pretty girls

cut them selves

starve themselves

want to die?

because once upon a time they weren't pretty to you.
they were weren't pretty to society.

why? because we build this dumb notion of what beautiful really is.
blue eyes
blonde hair
long skinny legs
flat chest and tummy.

no

that does not makeup a beautiful person.
nor is it perfect.

i am not perfect
you are not either.

so why do we degrade eachother
if what we have under our complexion is all the same.

some times i get so sad

     i
                                 just

b  r  e  a  k                                    
            
                         down

                                      into
                                                         p
                                                              i
                                                          ­      e
                                                          ­        c
                                                                ­     e
                                                               ­         s.

blonde hair, blue eyes,
flat tummy, thigh gap.
redder lips, long lashes.

vogue likes us skinny.
when we're bulimic you say "be yourself."

you say makeup makes you pretty.
but you tell us "don't mask your complexion!"

what
do
we
have
to
do
to
be
accepted?

hugs and kisses up until now.

a whole new world has peeled before my eyes.

flirty actions and make-out sessions has been forced upon us

alcohol and boys make a great party.

drama and girls happens everyday.

teenage life, what a blast.

R.I.P to my blissful youth.

yes i am young,
i am a child,
i have yet to experience the world.

maybe i don't know what love is quite yet.

but i do know what i feel
or felt
for someone i held dearly.

i may be an adolescent, but when i first turned 13

i knew i have experienced love.
not true love, but love,

do not tell me how i feel and how i don't
or how i should or how i shouldn't.

i met someone i loved at a juvenile age.

yes i am young
i am a child,
i have yet to experience the world.

maybe i don't know what love is quite yet.

but i know how i feel.

you popped my bubble gum heart,
with five simple words.

"i don't love you anymore."

now all that remained,
what i've left unsaid,

"but i still love you."
is what i feel for you.

like chewed up gum,
worn-out and colourless,
is how i feel without you.

i do not write poetry.
i do not write poetry, my soul touches the blank paper and blurts out some truth.

i am not a poet, i do not write poetry.
i am not a poet. my heart spills the ink onto the page and lets me take credit. i do not write poetry, my soul touches the blank paper and blurts out some truth.

i am not original, i am not a poet, i do not write poetry.
i am not original. i copy a poem that my mind already wrote and then i plagiarize it. i am not a poet. my heart spills the ink onto the page and lets me take credit. i do not write poetry, my soul touches the blank paper and blurts out some truth.

i am not original, i am not a poet, i do not write poetry.

my illness is something that is apart of me.
it is solely not me.

it is not the only thing i focus on.

whenever i tell someone i suffer from a mental illness, they have more questions then i can count. also including some accusations and negative comments.

but if i tell them about me, they reply with a "cool" or a "nice." and don't seem interested at all.

everyone seems more interested in MY mental illness, not ME.

i am not my illness.

i don't say "hi, i'm depression"

no.

i do say "hi, i'm laura"

yes i have an illness, it is a part of me.

but not me

sometimes i want to take off my skin.
and show everyone what lies i hid under my complexion.

there is no where to run, to lies to hide behind

just the painful truth

the agonizing honesty i've hidden behind a simple smile.
the words i wanted to speak but never had the courage to say.

our skin is just something we hid behind to shield our real selves and our true form and what we all have under our exterior is the

s a m e.

we are all identical.

as a child i used to have to bright, succulent, emerald eyes.
behind the lids of my eyes there was an over powering light that never blew out.

now as a just-turned-teen, i have dull, grey, eyes that lost their sparkle.
now, behind my eyes lids is something worse then pandora box's contents.

then there was the light i owned.

it's is dull and black and i wouldn't call a light anymore, it was more of a

bright darkness.

i'm lost in an ocean,
sinking in quick sand thats not so quick.

slowly i'm sinking deeper and deeper each day.
and you're just watching from the side lines.
you wont throw me a rope
or help me.

you just silently watch me.

when i finally drown you say you didn't see the signs.

but darling.

you drowned me.

when its at the end of your road, where do you hide?
where do you seek?

whats the point if your at a dead end?
its a long painful road.
like walking on hot charcoal without shoes.

whats the point in this?
i don't know the right road.

this is the only pathway i've known.

tears ran down my pale dead-like face like an Olympic track race.
standing on the scale with noting but my bare flesh.
no clothes no hide behind.
just me.

at that young moment, i suspensefully realized that i wouldn't be happy until i was down to zero pounds.

at that oppressing second i wanted to get better.

but if i get better i wont be beautiful and thin.

i will not be happy until i get to zero pounds.

bones.
i want to see more bones on my body.
i want to see the way the make crevices and bump out of my skin.
i want to be able to pinch my collar bone.

legs.
i want skinner legs.
i want to have a thigh gap.
i want to fit into a 000 jeans.

scale.
i want you to be lower.

depression is like being colourblind.
expect your colourblind to happiness.

you know it exists and you know its there.

and you want to see it.

but you see you see the world in the lens of depression.

am i still human without my humanity?

"you know smoking kills?"
"drugs do bad things to you"
"alcohol makes you crazy"



sounds like love to me.

if there's 7 billion candles and one burns out, will get much darker?
why
should
it
make
a
difference
when my light burns out?

friends are like hair,


if you don't maintain it,


it splits-

it has been a year.
but on those nights where i can’t sleep,

at 1am, i remember the times we laughed and loved, lusted and joked.

at 2am, you still stroll around my thoughts, having me think of what could have been.
what hasn’t been.
what would have been.

at 3am, i have an instant replay of the time you shot my heart with a gun called “words” and tried to repair it with a bandaid named “sorry” .

at 4am, i wish to be asleep before i restart my cycle and listen to my heart shatter into a million again.