Why can’t I let myself be
happy?
Why is it that
every time something absolutely
PHENOMENAL
happens,
my mind starts to
beat
me
down
into a
******, messy pulp?
Why does it hurt to be
happy?

He hugged me.
Said I was sweet.
But yet I’m not
ecstatic as I should be.
Perhaps it’s my ability to see that
we will never happen?
My ability to see that it was
nothing?
Just pity.
He pitied me,
pitied my poem.
I poured out my
heart and soul,
and gave it to him on a
golden platter.
Yet he feels
nothing
in return.
He only said it was sweet
because he felt
sorry;
sorry that it had to be
him.
He only hugged me
because he felt
pity.
I’m just a
charity case.
Nothing
more.

I want so desperately to be
beautiful,
so I write my
beautiful poetry using
beautiful words;
but that;s a lie.
It’s not beautiful.
Each and every one of my pieces are
horrid,
ugly,
defected...
just like me.
There’s no way I’ll ever be
pretty
(or pretty enough).
Nobody wants me,
anyways.

I’m made to be
lonely,
that’s why my mind seems so
complex.
I’ll never be alone;
I always have my thoughts...
or not.
Truth is,
I’ll never have anybody or
anything I want;
even though
all I ask for is someone to make me feel
beautiful.

Is that too much?

I
laugh
at my troubles, just
laugh the hurt away.
It stays, and simply
retreats.
It always
comes back another day,
just like the rain.
The hurt that came
the moment you kissed her.
The hurt that came
when I ran away and
you didn’t follow.
The hurt that is there,
every day of
every week of
every hour of
every minute of
every second...
I have enough
hurt
for us all.

So the masochistic I
welcome into my arms,
the lonely may stand in my
warmth,
and the depressed will not come because
they have no comforting place.
The schizophrenic I will
console,
the bipolar I will
stabilize.
And finally
in the end I will rejoice in their
comfort,
even though I have none.
It’s the closest I can get to
happiness.

I’m supposed to derive
poetry from my
feelings.
But
why is it
that whenever I’m at my
lowest,
my mind goes blank?
Whenever my emotions
are at an
extreme high,
my thoughts
disappear.

Why is it that my brain has
such strong swings of
emotion?
Why is it that when I try
hardest,
give my
VERY BEST,
all my attempts go
wasted?
They go
unheard,
unknown,
unappreciated,
underestimated,
and eventually
fade.


Just.
Like.
This.

Watch you tell
everybody but me.
Watch it be a
rumor that you’re spreading,
one that will
ruin me.
Watch me
cry as you
beat me down,
again,
watch me
cry myself to sleep as a
repetition
of the night
everything went wrong.

Watch me slash my
wrists,
legs,
as you go around saying I
don’t.
Watch you say I’m
fake,
when the scars are
RIGHT
THERE.
Watch you say I’m
just fine
when I’m most
obviously not.
Watch you say I’m a
b----;
Wait,
I can’t deny that.
Watch you call me a
w----,
even though I’ve
never had a boyfriend and
you’ve had at least three.

Watch you go around pointing out
others’ faults,
while flaunting and
denying your own at the
same time.
Watch you be nice
one moment, then
trash-talk me the other.
Watch you say you’re sorry and
never mean it,
watch you take back
everything you ever said,
just like before.

Watch you be the end of me.

Watch you tell
everybody but me.
Watch it be a
rumor that you’re spreading,
one that will
ruin me.
Watch me
cry as you
beat me down,
again,
watch me
cry myself to sleep as a
repetition
of the night
everything went wrong.

Watch me slash my
wrists,
legs,
as you go around saying I
don’t.
Watch you say I’m
fake,
when the scars are
RIGHT
THERE.
Watch you say I’m
just fine
when I’m most
obviously not.
Watch you say I’m a
b----;
Wait,
I can’t deny that.
Watch you call me a
w----,
even though I’ve
never had a boyfriend and
you’ve had at least three.

Watch you go around pointing out
others’ faults,
while flaunting and
denying your own at the
same time.
Watch you be nice
one moment, then
trash-talk me the other.
Watch you say you’re sorry and
never mean it,
watch you take back
everything you ever said,
just like before.

Watch you be the end of me.

Why do you walk around with that
mask?
Isn’t it so
stifling?
How can you stand the
restraints you’re under?
I don’t understand why you’re
hiding yourself under this
cruelty, using it like a
straight jacket
to keep yourself from
letting everything out.
What are you hiding?

I used to hate you but
now,
now I just feel compassion.
I’m so sorry that you live a
gilded life, a
jaded life. I’m
so, so sorry
that you
never knew the joys of
being yourself.
Now you don’t know
how to.
It’s too late.

And now I see why you would
oppress me, why you would
hate on me.
You’re scared.
You’re scared of me
releasing you from your straight jacket;
you’re too afraid of onlookers.
You care too much what other people think.
What a terrible way to
go through life, afraid of
opinions other than yours, when
yours is the only one that matters.
What a
horrible way to
live, to judge and
be judged.

But guess what?
I still hate you.
Yet I still manage to have
one tiny ounce of compassion, one
tiny part of me that really
feels for your misery.
Which is why
I forgive you.
But I
only forgive you because I feel
sorry for you.
I feel sorry that
I get to be myself and
you don’t
(even though I
do deserve it more than you).
So,
I forgive you for ruining my life.
I forgive you for making me
hate myself.
I forgive you for making me
Just.
Like.
You.
Which is
why I forgive you;
I know what it’s like to
be you.