Art appears to be a well thought out process, but really it is something that comes off the tips of your fingers and spills onto paper. It isn't neat or orderly, but what beautiful thing is? Art reflects our innards, the thoughts we have, and our torturous feelings. Art is my healing savior.

You're so sweet, all the time, maybe too much.
But yet, it seems like you try to make me angry.
Then you are oblivious to whatever it was that  you said, or did.
And me, being the person that I am hides my anger and develops a grudge.
I may be overreacting to something minor, but I hate it.
And I want to say that I hate you, because lately you've been making me feel this a lot.
I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I HATE YOU
You don't know when to shut up either, you just keep talking when I want to rip my head off.
I've really had enough of this, I'm tired of being so upset that I become ill.
Just leave me be, because I am tired of my feelings.
I am sick of wanting to hurt myself over stupid things.
I am sick of you, I am sick of me.
I am sick of life, and sick of death poisoning my mind.
I just want to die..sometimes.

I draw on my sadness to form my poetry, but my sadness has become invisible. And here I am still writing about my sadness when I am not really sad. I am just waiting for it to become visible. I'm addicted to my sadness, so maybe I should write about my happiness for a change.

I feel kinda wrong not feeling kinda bad.
Is this good, that I'm happy?
Yes, that much I know.
It puzzles every fiber of me though.
What has changed within me, what has changed in this month?
Did anything even?
I'm okay, I'm alright.
But am I right?
I guess that saying goes forth true, "You get addicted to a certain kinda sadness."
I was reluctant to let it go, but this is what I wanted all along.
I am happy for now, and that is all that matters now.

My mother once said that the scars we give trees are permanent just like the ones we have ourselves. This was after they found out I was harming myself. This is five years ago.
My mother cried, my father did too.
It was one of the only times I've seen him cry.
My mother had told my father, probably the night she saw the marks on my wrist.
We all sat in my room after my father got home from the trip he was on.
They asked me why, but I didn't know, and gave them some lies.
They heard it as what they wanted to: Truth.
Days later they found a note for after I was dead in a blue notebook, that I still have.
How foolish I was to leave it out.
You can imagine that went over well.
They asked, crying "It's just one of your stories, right?"
I told them the word they wanted to hear.
I can't remember much, and we never talk about that time now.

But four years from that time the problem arose again.
They haven't seen my marks, they are on my hips.
Hidden by the cotton of my underwear, how clever am I?
Not very.
But I am slowly fighting this off, and solving a problem that couldn't be solved the first time.
I'm glad I've a second chance now.
I'll remember what my mother once said, and listen to her more.

I read things based off love all over, in books, on the internet, and in the faces of many people.
I wonder if I will discover that love everyone looks for, and then I wonder if I have already found it.
These people seem to have eyes for only this person, and that person only, they seem to desire nothing else but that person.
This perplexes me because I can say I love someone in the way I've been searching, but I can say that I do not always desire just this person.
Is my love not deep enough?
Is it not love?
Maybe I should stop asking and start believing..?
How do you know though?
Love is not measured, it is immeasurable.
It is something of no mass, but at the same time weighs more than the human itself.
Love is infinite.  
I can say that I love this person, and know that I do.
But is this the right person?
I feel as if I shouldn't be asking if this were, but for as long as I am happy I will be here.

I experienced something yesterday, I wouldn't call it heartbreak. But if I were to call it heartbreak, I would have been breaking my own heart. I feel like I'm picking up feelings I dropped yesterday, right now. Everything made my eyes want to drip salty tears, and my face wanted to crinkle in sadness. It's only been 3 days, and I know it isn't time. But today, I was scared to ask my mother if it was okay to want to get back together with him. I never realized how much I can rely on the people here in my home. The people that wake me up in the morning. I have never had tears brimming my eyes for days at a time, it was a newer experience. One that I needed. I know life is only preparing me now for what is to come. I've had it pretty easy all my life, it only gets harder from here. And I, ha, I only get stronger.