Virginity is not about,
The first time you had ****** activities.

But being a ******,
Is about the first time you made,
Love.

Who are you.
Good question,
I barley know myself anymore.

Pull down your sleeves boy,
It may be all for attention but why would you want them to see.

Don't wear shorts little girl,
You hide you scars so they don't judge us, you see.

Stop crying small boy,
Those black and blue marks brought someone else joy.

Don't scream young girl,
They take pride knowing your in pain.

Don't be sad,
Be happy.

But don't you see it's not for attention,
Why would they hide it if it was?

Why would you judge someone,
Who has suffered more pain then you?

Why beat someone black and blue,
Because their actions didn't please you?

Why **** them,
Would you want that to happen to you?

Why tell them to be happy,
When your the one bringing them sadness?

Why is sadness such an intoxicating feeling?
Why is sadness like a drug,
And why do I repeatedly medicate myself with this feeling?

Why would I continue feeling like this?
It is an always thing,
Or is it a sometimes thing?

Sometimes I am sad,
Sometimes I am depressed,
This is not normal.

I am not a normal person,
I am unhappy,
I am depressed.

I have issues but,
I live with them.

If I wasn’t living with them,
I would be dead,
I wouldn’t exist.

I would have left,
Left this earth,
Never to return.

Suicide,
Would have been what I turned to.
I would have seen it as my only choice.

If I live with them,
For long enough,
I’ve learned they go away in time.

In time,
Everything goes away.

Sadness,
Depression,
Anything unhappy,
Goes away in time.

Everything gets better in time.
Whether or not you want to accept it.

Don’t watch the clock,
It makes time slow down.
If you watch this mental clock,
Nothing will ever become easier.
It all gets harder.

If you just wait,
It may seem hard now,
But if you wait,
It will get better.

I promise that to you.

I'm speaking.
But no one is listening.

I'm breathing.
But no one is caring.

I'm smiling.
But no one is noticing.

Why bother anymore?

When asked,
Why don't you believe in yourself,
What is an adequate answer?

My teacher asked me this,
After reading one of my poems,
I stumbled over the question.

I know I do not,
But I am unsure,
On why.

Maybe it's because,
I've never been chosen first,
Or never gotten done first.

Or maybe it's because,
I don't like the way I write,
I wish I could pain the sky with my words.

Maybe because,
I don't think I can write as good,
As everyone else.

I don't enjoy comparing myself,
To people better then me,
But I don't believe in me,
So I cannot compare myself,
To myself.

I don't believe in myself,
Because I am myself.

I was asked,
Why do you write so much.

I wasn't sure how to respond,
Should I say it's my happy place,
My escape?

Or perhaps it's my attitude,
The reason I walk with strength not weakness.

It makes me brave,
And courageous.

So my question for you,
Is why don't you write?

The girl sits with a razor kissing her wrists.
The boy sits in a corner enduring never ending kicks.

She says she'll be fine.
He says he just stepped out of line.

She doesn't understand that this is far from fine.
And He doesn't understand that this is not because he was out of line,

She believes she deserves this.
He believes they love him.

Neither of which are true.

Why would she deserve pain,
and why would he deserve the cold bottom of their shoes?

We are nothing but birds,
With broken wings.

We are the kids,
You would be nervous around.

But we are the kids,
We are most comfortable around.

We are the birds with wings,
Snapped in two.

But Anne,
Her wings have healed and she will fly.

And Max,
His wings are splinted,
But they work.

Veronica,
Her wings were never completely impaired,
But now she flies gracefully.

Zach,
His wings are impaired,
But he has learned how to use them.

Sabrina,
Her wings are lifting her higher then before.

Mitchelle,
His wings are lifting him,
His troubles leaving him.

Sarah,
Her wings have lifted her troubles away nicely.

These people,
Will live to fly another day.

Writers block..
It's killing me.

Like a slow,
Insanity.

It's taking control,
Of me.

Writers block,
It's attacking my sanity.

It's taking control,
Over my mentality.

Writers Block,
Oh Writers Block,
What are you doing to me.

You make me smile.

You make me happy.

You make me feel like nothing could go wrong.

I wander this earth,
I feel the soft grass under my bare soles.

I breathe the honeysuckle tainted air.
Listening to the bee's buzzing through the trees.

I picture this place without air,
Then realize nothing would be here.

You are my air,
Filling me with life.

You are my bee,
You keep me alive like I'm a small flower.

You are my soft grass,
Giving me a place to stand and rest my worries.

You make me feel something,
I didn't know I was capable of.

You make me feel happiness.

Your smile,
Lights up my heart.

Your eyes,
Melt my soul.

It's like you were built for me.

I think I love you.

But that can't possibly be true,
But maybe it is a fact you like me too.

Your as cute as can be,
You make me happy I can see.

I love the way your eyes light up,
When talking about music.

I just love everything about you.

I can feel it.
The walls are closing in.

I'm trapped.

You wouldn't realize I'm dreaming.

It isn't real,
But it is real,
My mind,
Makes me think it might be.

The air is tight and stale
Suffocating me.

Perhaps someone is smothering me.
I mean,
I'm asleep right?

I hold my hands against these tight walls,
They seem to be tightening
Pushing against me.

I can feel everything
How is this possible?
I'm not awake.

This is all fake
Nothing happened,
Yet, I'm feeling all of it.

My heart is beating fast,
Sweat dotting my neck.

That's when I hear a small voice,
*You're not real.

You're the kind of person that makes flowers grow.
Your smile makes me want to cry,
Knowing no one elses smile will ever come close.

You're the kind of person,
That makes birds sing.
Your laugh makes them sing along.

You're the kind of person,
That can calm an ocean.
Your small happy attitude,
Keeps it calm.

You are the kind of person,
That can handle me.

You may say,
Sexuality is a choice.

It isn’t,
I am pansexual,
I am 14,
I was born like this.

You cannot tell me I am confused,
When I have always been this way.

I may not have said anything,
But obviously this is not a choice.

I was afraid to disappoint my Mother and Father,
I didn’t think they would approve,
If given the choice I would be straight.

But obviously I am not,
I was born like this.

Do not have the audacity,
To tell me I don’t know who I am yet.

I may not no who I am,
But I can tell you this,
I know who I am interested in.