All I wanted was
one chance, just
one chance to prove that
I was best for you.
I gave you my heart and received
nothing.
But
doesn't it always work out that way?

I wish that
Cinderella never got the guy.
I wish that
Sleeping Beauty never got the kiss.
I wish that
Snow White had stayed asleep.
I wish that
I had no reason to hope anymore.
Because all I have left is hope, which I
cling to with all I've got, yet I
haven't the strength to
carry on.
But it's
so much harder to fall
out of love than to fall
into it.

And I already know that I'm
not alone.
I know that
things will get better.
Don't you dare give me the
same old story anymore.
All you want to do is
focus on the easy feedback.
You never dig deeper
into my words,
into my pain.
You never realize what I'm
really saying, you
never realize;
You can't help me.
Nobody can.

I really
can’t help but
wish that things had gone as planned.
I wanted them to
come upstairs and find my
dead body,
seemingly asleep.
Not even dead,
a coma at the least.
I wanted to
never wake up,
I wanted to
never go back.
I still want to.

At the
loony bin, I
told them I was sorry.
I
told them that I
didn’t know what I was doing.
I told them I
didn’t want to die anymore.

Lies.
All of them.

Now I have
no means of hurting myself, no
way to cause any harm.
My pills are locked up.
I don’t have any sharp things.
I’m too wimpy to hang myself.
I guess if I
really wanted to die, then I would
find a way-
if there’s a will, there’s a way-
but who am I kidding.
Everything I
do and feel is
half-assed.
So is this.

I haven’t written in
MONTHS.
I’ve been saying it’s
writer’s block,
saying it’s my
lack of time...
So.
Many.
Excuses.
Do excuses count as
lies?
Just curious.

So I guess I should be coming to a
conclusion;
but to this
situation there is no conclusion,
why should there be one to this
poem?
Why should I care whether you
like this or not, whether I
end this well or not?

Oh yeah.
I shouldn’t.

I want to
find a hiding place and
curl up, like
Esther in
The Bell Jar, and
be the cause of my
own demise.
Nobody will bring me down.
I am in control of my
self.
Nobody decides when I am
ready to go.
I'll do it myself.
I'LL conquer myself.
Nobody else will.

I want to hide myself,
take the fifty
sleeping pills,
not be found so that my
plan works.
I want to
see the light,
touch death,
and fall into it.

I'll
never come back.

Only through
death
will your silenced words speak as
loud as you wished they would.
That's the only time people will
listen.
The message you’ve been
aching to get out
all your life
will only be recognized after you’re
gone.
It’s the
only way.
So maybe
that’s why people die young.
Although their voices are
already silenced, but in a
different way,
they realize that the
only way others will listen is through
permanence.

But isn’t it funny;
You won’t be there to witness your
recognition, your
fame.
Just like
Sylvia Plath,
Edgar Allen Poe,
Emily Dickinson,
Vincent van Gogh, and
Pachelbel’s Canon.
Look at all of this
recognition, this
fame they got.
All AFTER the tragedy of their
deaths.
Nobody cared to
pay attention at first.
But now that they’re
gone,
it’s all
so much more valuable.
Oh, the irony.

But I think it would be
worth it, at least for
me.
It would be
bittersweet, and it would be
tragic.
All of those people that
hated me, they would
finally feel remorse.
HE would realize what he
could’ve had.
Finally, people would
appreciate me.
Finally, I would be
loved.
Missed.
Noticed.
It’s all so
selfish, but
I’m allowed my
guilty pleasures...
right?

All I want is to be
loved.
No matter the cost.

I still remember;
“You are stronger than you think.”
I would really
love
to believe this statement, this
unintended lie.

I want to say how
strong I really am, that you were
right.
But it’s
so
hard
to believe in something you’re
not. It’s
so
freaking
hard
to be strong when I’m surrounded by all of these
faces, these
masks.

Faces are just
masking the only thing that really matters.
Your soul is what you should be seen by, not a
face, a
nose, a
mouth, a
pair of eyes.
Those are just material things.

And that’s why people are
so often fooled.
But I can see past those masks.
I can see that there is
ingenuity everywhere.
It’s
so hard to be strong when you’re surrounded by all these
treacherously weak people.

I can’t, I just
cant.

I’m sorry.

I know.
I ****.
But that's why I
keep writing;
to keep that belief
live.
It's the only thing
stable at the moment.

I can feel myself
sliding away.
I try to speak.
I try to let the words
spill, but I
clam up.
My vocal chords
freeze, and
nothing comes out.
I gape and gasp like a
frog,
but all of me
chokes up.

My throat tingles,
my tongue goes to the back of my
mouth.
My mind is turning
against me.

I think strange thoughts.
What would happen if I
took this pen and
shoved it down my
throat?
If I drank all my
pills?
If I curled up in a corner and mumbled
insanities
to myself-
nonstop?

I want to
kick and scream,
flail around on the ground and
give myself rugburns
Slam into things and bruise.
Take a razor to my
legs, arms
I've done it before.
I have scars.
Scars of insanity.

But am I really
insane?
Would they really help me at a
loony bin?
I think not.
I'm not even insane,
though.
I'm just a
stupid,
naive,

hopeless

hormonal teenager.
And besides,
I may be too far gone into my
withdrawal.
It's too late.
I can't go back to the way I was
before,
when I was
happier.



It's all too late.