Now here’s the crazy thing about mental illnesses and poetry.
A pen can be a knife and well,
Vice versa.
Maybe you’d seen me scribbling nonsense on my notes;
Where I should be taking notes instead, mind you.
Believe me, in my mind
I’d have killed everyone in the room,
Maybe including you,
Three times at least
By stabbing them in the eyes
And of course, myself, in the end
By the time I’d have finished the first line.
My mind is a cat that can change its shape.
Sometimes it’s a lazy Persian That wouldn’t get out of its bed
And sometimes it’s a Corgi
That just wouldn’t stop barking.
You must now be thinking
“But Corgi is a dog breed. Aren’t you supposed to be talking about cats?”
Well, and I’m supposed to be out,
Talking to people like everyone else
Instead of complaining here, am I not?
I wish my body was a high school
So that I could report to the principal that
My brain is relentlessly bullying
My heart by making her pay for
Everything that he lacks.

So I punched the wall again.
For the first time In two months.
The bruises were completely gone just last month.
It was a smart choice I’d say.
The wall was an antidote
And my hand was poison
That I was going to use for them.
Do you know what pain looks like?
It looks like the look in your beautiful mother’s eyes when she’s looking at you.
It looks like the words your father yells at you.
It looks like you singing Sufjan Stevens’ The Only Thing to the all smashed-up package of cigarettes in your hand.
It looks like the ******* bruises on your **** knuckles.
It looks like the ******* scars on your ******* arms that they think are ridiculous.
But it’s not ugly.
Pain is a blessing.
Because it lets you know you’re still human.
Even though everyone treats you like you’re not.

I can see them burn;
The eyes of dozens of people.
They burn with enthusiasm to watch me burn.
I’m at stake
With flames on my body;
Flames of hate,
Flames of despise,
Flames of hatred
And flames of pity.
All I want right now is to burn.
Because being burnt is
More pleasant than
Being burnt.
I’m in the middle of the town
Because of my existence.
Because of what I’m born with.
Why do I have to suffer for
Something I didn’t get to choose?
I’ve closed my eyes shut
For all my life
So that they wouldn’t know
They shine a different spectrum.
Not anymore.
I’m letting them shine for
The first and the last time.
I will let them shine for you.
I will burn for you.
I will let them burn me for you.

When I said I wanted to die,
I didn’t mean I wanted to die.
I don’t want to die.
I just want a way out.
I am lying on my bed
As if I am dead with my eyes open.
I don’t know how much time has passed.
All I can feel is the coldness
That is flowing from my eyes
To the ears, whispering to me to
Never get up, that I can’t get up.
I’m holding my heart like a balloon
And I’m walking through the garden of thorns
Fertilized by their words.
My fingers are a gun
That I use to exorcise the pain away
With the placebo bullets that leave scars on my arms.
I am here but
My mind is held hostage
In the prison built with
Their staring eyes.
So I am here lying lifeless,
Praying I would wake up soon.

Is it possible for a heart to die
While a person is still alive?
I can feel the chains tighten
Around my heart
With each word you mutter.
Your velvet hands
Smother me so tenderly
In the name of Love
That I cry my hate out.
My arms feel wooden
Dancing along your golden strings,
Stabbing my soul in the neck
Exactly five times
Because that is your favorite number.
I stare at the foot of my bed
For God knows how long
Hoping there’s a monster in the closet.
But there’s only you,
Singing me my lullaby.
And I will sleep.
I will sleep because my body is giving out.
I will sleep because in the morning,
You will smile again.
Because in the morning,
I will pretend this was a dream again.

It’s ironic how
Emptiness can occupy such a large place
As a human heart.
It’s anatomically and medically and probably physically impossible
But it is somehow possible.
There’s no way I can prove it but  
It’s there.
You feel the nothingness spreading its roots in your heart.
And you feel every inch of the pain they inflict
You feel its wicked wings shooting its sharp feathers,
Cutting each and every one of the heartstrings in the most
Inhuman way possible.
You want to cry but
The null has consumed
The last drop of the
Tears of emotion you have left.
Even if you are a Houdini at the art of escaping,
How do you escape the perfect trap that you set yourself?

Aliens are real.
At least I like to believe it that way
Because the idea of loneliness terrifies me.
But I dont ever want to find out that
They exist for real
Because that would make them real
And if they're real, I'm going be lonely again.
They're just going to be ignored like
The rest of the 7 billion people
That I pretended don't exist.
I want them to be real just the way
The cigarette smoke that would
Disappear right after the moment it was created is real.
So, please, Extraterrestrials, be real for me.
And leave me alone
So that I wouldn't be alone.