I was born.
Got first tooth.
Said first word.
Blah. Blah. Blah.

Grew up.
Got bullied.
Got depressed.
Started to cut.
Wrote stuff.
Wrote more.
Killed self.

What did I write?

“I wish
I would die.
The story of
My life.”

When we are born we are born to be made,
Shaped like clay from the confines of the universes hands.
Like art.
And like art we are critiqued,
And like art we become,
Until our colours, thoughts, behaviours form,
And we are human,
We are all in one piece,

And these people stand and these people stand and give their verdict,
And these people stand and extend an invitation to us, an invitation that tells us to now be a "Starry night" instead of a Picasso painting,  although they don't know even Starry night had their Picasso days.

And these people stand as they extend their arm, capturing the essence of our being on the street, when sometimes our clay is soft, or when the paint bleeds from us.

But our arms and wrists  can bleed,
But our minds are told it cannot,
With the exception of one day to ask: "Are you okay?"

But by then I'm already in the kiln, and already dried to the bone,
Because I am an artist,
And i will shape myself again.

I am aware
of all things present,
the pinch behind my eyes
the pressure in my nose
my deep, soft,
too loud–heavy–quiet breathing
(How?)
Give me back my bones
Give me back my sleep,
my dreams.
Too close, too much, not enough:
I am endlessly ending

Cry

Please let me sleep–end–cry–
somethinganythingplease

The happiness
Drains from
Me like
Water from a
Hose.

Depression is a burden,
Just as life is cruel.

Though I have the tendency
To drag a blade across my
          Soft,
                            Thin,
                                               Scarred,
Flesh....

Your words shoot through me
Like a bullet at maximum speed.

The cherry trees blossom pink,
As the grass beams a brilliant green.
The apple trees are full of white flowers,
Some days, sun fills the hours.
But yet here I stand,
In the rain, once again.
I still enjoy the luscious land.

Yes, the rain pours
Like the tears on my cheeks.
But be astound;
After the rain
There is much more beauty,
And much less pain.