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.

No one hears your
lovely tears but
you.
And you wonder why you’re
alone at night as you
cry for
nothing,
wishing away the ghosts that
haunt the hallways of your
memories,
whisking away the
happiness you
once had.

No one fears the
listening ears but
you as you
try to suppress the
screams that come with
every single
incision you make on your
sanity.
Now you can never go back.

No one sees your
invisible boundaries but
you, as you
see the extent of your happiness becoming
shorter and
shorter.
You know it’s going to
end you someday.
But you can’t stop it.

So how high are you on your
pedestal now as you realize
JUST
HOW
TORTURED
I was?
How low can it be, huh?
Only as low as you went when you
ripped away my joy, turned
everybody on me, made me
MISERABLE.
That’s what you get.

You get nothing.

Lonely am I
who walks along my own path;
Lonely is the one who
pushes others away,
exiling themselves to their own
misery.
Lonely am I
who writes in her corner;
Lonely is the one who is
unsatisfied in their state of
mind.

Lonely are the ones who are
pushed away,
by both the ones they love
and the ones who love them.
Lonely are the ones who
never utter a single word
of their pain,
lonely are the ones who
express themselves through
written words,
screamed music,
pain...
Lonely are the ones like
me.

Laying with my heart wide open,
trying to understand your words spoken.
You tell me to accept your token,
but here I am, bent and broken.

Looking back into our past,
I thought that we would always last.
But then you ripped my heart wide open,
and here I lie, bent and broken.

You aren’t a simple love was lost,
It was my heart your facade cost.
But there were much too few words spoken,
so here I lie, bent and broken.

And as I dig in my well-bent mind,
I’m going to have to leave you behind.
A million apologies you could have boughten;
Too late. I’ll always be bent and broken.

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.

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.

I wish to speak
nonsense words and
be understood; for
I am a poet.
Every and any
meaningless thing has a
meaning.
You just have to
look for it.
So my job is to
give these things their
purpose, give them their
life.

I
breath life into the
letters I form,
for I am a
savior. These
words had no intentions until I
picked them up and
brushed off their dust. I
caress them and
care for them and
bend them to my will;
they oblige willingly.
These words create
art on your page, and
I am the
artist, putting
ideas in your mind from a
simple picture. But
this picture you can
read. You can
read the
emotions and
ideas plainly.

I wish to put
thoughts in your mind, for
I am a hypnotist.
I take these words and
twist them to your
preference,
infiltrating your subconscious with
my ideas that I
****** upon you;
I leave
subliminal messages to
think what I think,
do what I do,
say what I say.
You don’t even realize that
you do the same with your
own words.

I wish to be
noticed, for I am
human.
I
write these words
feverishly, hoping that
SOMEONE will
see them,
read them,
appreciate them.
I pour out my
heart and soul in a form that
you will listen to;
all I ask in return is your
approval,
response,
opinion.
Any reaction would suffice.
But it’s for
you that I write, for
you that I take
time and energy to
face my fears,
expose my flaws,
expose my
self;
prove me vulnerable.
Yet
you give me nothing in return.
And I
continue in this
thankless career,
dreaming of the day when
somebody will realize that
all I want is to be
appreciated.

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.

If I were to jump,
throw my soulless body from this
rooftop
Would you reach after me?
Would you risk your life to
bring me back to you?
What would you do?

If I were to scream,
kick my legs until they went numb,
would you calm me?
Hold me still?
Quiet me and tell me that it’s
going to be alright?
What would you do?

If I were to ask you
if you liked me
Would you say
yes?
What would you do?

If I were to tell you
I love you
What would you do?

You wouldn’t care.
That’s what you would do.

Hold me
please
I need you
and want you
So why can't you
see that?
My need,
out on a golden platter;
my heart on my sleeve
for the world to take
I'm desperate
but afraid of being
taken advantage of
again.

I'm desperate to feel,
love
But it's hard to do
when the people you reach out to
push you away
So I reach out to love's epitome,
searching for pain,
the easiest to find
in this cruel world
So, as I tremble on the floor,
are you happy?
Have you finally found some sick satisfaction
from my attempts to please you,
all in vain?
Because I'm through.
I am done
serving you
following and clinging to you
like a lost puppy
Your free entertainment
has expired

I know I should be happy,
these tears nonexistant.
But I still suffer from these scars
And I'm not entirely sure I'm happy this way
But I guess
time will tell
Maybe we can try again
some other time.
But I am fragile
So until you,
this brain and body that contains my soul,
Until you realize
that I have been hurt enough
Until you learn
not to treat me like a
pair of socks
(warm and soft but walked all over),
Until I heal
Until we grow mature,
forgive and forget
I don't know
I just don't know
We may meet again,
a forgotten memory
But,
you're on your own.
Go.
Leave me.
Please...

Stay?

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.

You ask me if I’m okay;
all these
words come up in my head.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
But on the inside, I’m
SCREAMING.
I’m not okay, and I
wish I could say that. I
wish I could tell you that I
still want to die, I
want to slit my wrists,
swallow my pills,
jump from a building or
SOMETHING.
ANYTHING.
Because I’m
not okay.
And I
never will be.

You ask me if I’m okay;
all these
words come up in my head.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
But on the inside, I’m
SCREAMING.
I’m not okay, and I
wish I could say that. I
wish I could tell you that I
still want to die, I
want to slit my wrists,
swallow my pills,
jump from a building or
SOMETHING.
ANYTHING.
Because I’m
not okay.
And I
never will be.

Nobody
would've ever guessed that
I,
Maggie,
the crazy, joyful,
happy
one,
could've ever done what I did.
I, Maggie,
the one that prances around,
not giving a ****.
The one that
takes life by the hand and
pulls it along
after her;
while deep inside, she
scorns it.

As I smile on the outside,
no one can guess the amount of
pain
that my soul is putting up with.
I mask it with
false joy,
unknown to others and
unseeable
except for when I
slash it open on my
wrists,
legs;
My only weak spots.

And nobody would've guessed that
I,
Maggie,
the one who loves,
hated herself enough to try to
end herself.
They never could've,
though.
I gave them no reason to.
So why would I want them to think that I
did?

I blame the hormones.

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 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.

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.

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.

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 know I have my own
problems,
but you’re not so perfect
yourself.
Yet you still
drag
me
down
into this bottomless pit
that you dug for the purpose of
hiding your insecurities

It’s like you
can’t let anyone see your
true self
And once they sense your
fear,
unsureness,
you strike.

Seeing how your heart is
frozen,
it musn’t be hard for you to
break one’s spirit
And now I can see
how easy it is for you to
drag your friends into your
misery
But you saved your worst for
me.
At least I know you
cared...

Somewhat.

Do you like crushing your
friends?
Do you enjoy seeing people
hurt?
I guess so, because
why else would you
utterly destroy
the only people you were
ever
able to call your
friends?

I'm writing one great piece before the
real impact
sets in.
I'm telling one great tale before the
depression takes over my
being,
leaving me
entirely
immobile.

I'm sharing one opinion before I
collapse
in on myself.
I'm creating one last
failure
before I realize my
lack
of success.
I'm teaching one last lesson of
illness,
hell-bent wishes,
and nothingness.
I'm trying
one
more
time
to attempt to make
some difference.
I'm trying,
breathing,
writing
one last piece before I'm completely




consumed

Words come to my mind but I
don’t
record them, I
don’t
write them down;
I’m sick.
I’m sick and
tired,
worn down and
uninspired.
I’m simply
too sad to write.
But sometimes I have to
forget my self and
throw away my
self-pity.
I’m a
word forger first,
mentally ill second.

And still, I have
no motivation.
I need a
new muse, my
old one is just that:
old.
My
suffering is not
important enough for me to go on
pitying and
pining and
perishing.
But I’m scared.

What happens when I
throw that away?
Will the
poetry stop?
Will the
words stop
appearing in my mind?
I can see them;
I can see the
letters and the
spaces and the
lines.
They materialize in my
subconscious,
push their way to my
full attention.
They fit together like
puzzle pieces, the
beautiful, perfect letters organizing into these
amazing words, allowing me to
bend them and
shape them to my will.
I can’t risk losing that;
I love it to much.

So what will happen once I’ve found a
new muse?
Will it be
different?
Will I have to
make the words myself, instead of my
subconscious giving them to me like
perfect little gifts?
I couldn’t do that;
I’m not creative enough.
I’m not
good enough at this art to
be able to do that.

I don’t
want to change.
I don’t
want to find anything new.
I don’t
want to lose this amazing little thing that I
found in me, the
one thing I know I’m
TRUELY good at.
I don’t want to lose the
only thing that keeps me sane.

My
‘Scars of Insanity,’
I called them.
I now think that
‘Scars of Ugliness’
better fits them.
The ugliness I carved into myself,
to remind everyone that I will
never
be good enough.

I will
never
have enough,
enough of anything.
Not enough
motivation,
sanity...
talent.

Never again will I be
confident enough to
believe
in anything;
Except my
faith,
the only stable thing in my life...
at the moment.

Never again will I be
happy,
for my mind will
never
allow it.
I can never go back,
back to when I was
happy;
oblivious,
in my own naivety.

Never
ever
again
will I hear the
laughter
of my
used-to-be clan
of sisters...
all but one have left me;
have abandoned me,
attacked me before giving me a
chance.
But I did nothing wrong.
At least, I think I didn’t.
I don’t know,
they never told me.

And now I’m left in my own
mourning
of the innocence I used to have.
With my innocence left my
naivety,
sanity,
joy.
Just like Everyman in the ancient play,
nothing but one thing remains;
except this time, it’s not my good deeds.
The only thing that clings to me is the
evilness
of my own mind.
It will
ALWAYS
be there, taunting, teasing,
tormenting...

torturing.

Always there to remind me that I will
NEVER
go back again.
I’m trapped,
stuck,
to be miserable the
rest
of
my
life.

But hey,
maybe I’m meant to be miserable.
Everything happens for a reason...
right?

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

They don’t know that they will all
die
in the end.

I have to write my pieces in
pen,
because when the ink runs
freely
my ideas run freer.

The ideas pop up
randomly.
I’m never able to catch them in time
Especially when I’m in my
“emo” mood.


“You don’t know what it’s like...
welcome to my life.”

Actually, Simple Plan,
I do.
Welcome to MY life.
Its not that
no one know or understands.
They just can’t tell
depression from
wanting attention.
And they’re all idiots for it.

“For a second I wished the tide
would swallow every inch of this city,
as you gasp for air tonight...”

I really do hate this place.
But do i really want everyone to
die?
I want to die.
That doesn’t mean everyone has to
go with me.
Even though someday,
I WILL go out with a
bang.
But not yet.
Oh, how I wish the
Anthem Of Our Dying Day rang
true.

“I know the world’s a broken bone
but melt your headaches, call it home.
Hey moon, please forget to fall down;
hey moon, don’t you go down.
You are at the top of my lungs,
drawn to the ones who never yawn.”

Yes, moon,
please stay up.
I want to dream
forever,
never have to face
reality.
I send my love back to you,
Northern Downpour,
even if I’m missing the point
entirely.
Of course I want to melt my
headaches,
but how am I supposed to call this hell a home?
Home is where the heart is.
My heart broke,
so I threw it away.

“All I ever wanted
was love.”

Me too, Christopher Drew
Me too.

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.

Everything's a
race,
isn't it?
A race to
grow up, a race to
be loved, a race to
fulfill yourself.
Nobody ever
slows down to wonder
why
we're racing.
Nobody ever
stops to look at the
big picture;
we're all going to
die, anyway.
Why should you try to
care?

Why should you
change when
all you'll be in the end is
dust;
exactly what you
started as?
Why should we try to
come together when
everything that comes together
falls apart?
Everything falls apart.
We will all be
forgotten, our
actions, our
words, our
morals, our
wishes.
Why should anything we do
matter?

Everything's a
race,
isn't it?
A race to
grow up, a race to
be loved, a race to
fulfill yourself.
Nobody ever
slows down to wonder
why
we're racing.
Nobody ever
stops to look at the
big picture;
we're all going to
die, anyway.
Why should you try to
care?

Why should you
change when
all you'll be in the end is
dust;
exactly what you
started as?
Why should we try to
come together when
that which comes together
falls apart?
Everything falls apart.
We will all be
forgotten, our
actions, our
words, our
morals, our
wishes.
Why should anything we do
matter?

Keep reminding yourself,
"you are loved,"
you just might make it.
Just keep walking, keep
running on the
lies feeding this
dead country.
Your jaded eyes can't see that
I am here,
calling your name
over and over and over;
you just won't listen.
Because you're
sick and tired,
run down and
uninspired,
trying to find your truth in a
nation of falsehoods.
Everyone tells you you
can't;
they're right, but that
doesn't mean you
shouldn't try.
You might still have a chance to
save yourself.

Save me from the
noise, the
crowd.
Save me from the
judging, jaded eyes.
Save me from my
pain, and make me
forget
such things exist.
But most of all, take this
broken heart of mine and make it
whole.

You put the
color back into my face, the
feeling back into my soul, the
passion back in
everything I do.
You lead my
cold eyes to warmth and my
numb mind to emotion and my
scarred heart to healing.
You took words and
put them into my head,
where I can
plaster them on the paper.
You took these
forgotten fingers and
taught them how to write again.

You brought back the poetry that
ran away from me when I
changed,
convinced it to take me
back into its
accepting arms;
because poetry doesn’t just take
sadness.
It takes
hope, and
happiness, and the
mental capacity to understand what you
can and can’t change.

You gave me
all of these,
because of you, I am
whole again.
And I
thank God every day for it.