I believe that the things we think about at 4 am define who we are and what we truly care about. For example, when I was awake at times in the night when it's considered to be extremely early morning I thought of how lucky I am that my feet haven't worn down like my sneakers. That my body can still carry me even though my mind and soul are weakened. I thought of how beautiful you look when you're sweating even though that might be weird in some cases.
   I'd think about how I want to slash highways into my forearms that would give a pathway for a better life. One where I'm not tormented by the fact that so many more of my friends are capable of having normal every day lives when I, am not. A life where calling a business or family member didn't mean a panic attack. The gushing of air repeatedly into and out of my lungs fills me with panic and hopelessness.
   I'd think about how I want to spend every day with my new family but I can't. I want to tell them I love them but I can't because showing emotions makes me weaker. It shows that I can barely stand on my own two feet, that the second my family leaves I'll be torn down. Piece by piece the bricks fall out, my head in shambles I become nothing again.
   I think how badly I'd love to kiss you. But I can't. I think our minds show what we care about. I care about you, my family. But wouldn't you be so much better off without me?

There’s a theory about alternate universes, or if you want we can call it the multiverse. It’s where for every single idea ever thought of, there’s an alternate universe where it’s actually happened. For example, when George Lucas thought up star wars, somehow in another time, place or galaxy far far away, a star breathed in light. It breathed it in and out and created a universe where eventually, like ours, it gave life to atoms. And these atoms created people or monkeys or god or something which eventually : Became the star wars universe. I’m not a scientist but I think that’s pretty sweet. It’s this theory that kind of punches hope into my chest because what other way will I be able to take hope without a fight except to punch it directly into my chest. I guess though in a way also though, ****** also thought up of killing off all the jews and probably becoming world leader but let’s hope that didn’t happen.

It’s a simple idea like that though, that I have a little more reason for living. I’ve seen dark days and darker times created inside my own little piece of mind like p-i-e-c-e and not peace like a peace sign. Cause my mind is a battle field filled with corpses and death and totally dead people all around and to be honest it gets me really bummin. So instead of filling my mind with the dead I fill it with scenarios where I’m spider-man. I swing my web high till I run out of buildings, I let my body sky dive down into the ***** pits of New York where I help clean up the trash and gag cause I really hate taking out the trash like literally it’s really gross. But I help nonetheless.

When I was little I’d have dreams that didn’t end up happening until like eight years later and I realized I could see into the future. All the things I’d see were insignificant though so it’s not like they really mattered but one thing I keep a look out for are spiders. I had a dream I was spider-man, I swung a web accidentally and if I hadn’t woken up panicked I would’ve hit pavement harder than the realization that maybe God didn’t exist when I was eight or that...dad wasn’t coming back. All of this is off track so what I’m trying to make my point about to close a poem with is this: There’s a theory that what you think up in one universe, it can happen in another. So what I hope for is maybe there’s some kid in another universe, just like me. He looks up at the sky or in his room or a ceiling light when he’s really high and thinks: Hey, maybe I have spider powers in another universe. Cause the day I become spider-man, maybe I won’t be such a loser anymore.

Note: I wanted to be able to read this almost in the voice of either Shaggy from ******-Do or like a really nervous like, crazy kind of guy in a group session. So hopefully if you can imagine any of those voices while reading this then it'll make it even better.

Hello, my name's Paul Lauer. This is my first group kind of session so I guess I'll start off by saying I have an addiction ! I can't stop doing it, no matter where I go. In my room, in the shower, in the woods, in my therapist bathroom like four year ago before it was my turn to have my thoughts dissected. I feel so ***** admitting it but I think it's time I washed my hands of this when I say: I love to daydream.

   I know, some of you may or may not be shocked. It's almost obvious to the ones who see through my facade of a confident white teenager. For starters my shaky left hand, constantly gripping my sturdy, hard pen while I put thoughts onto paper. Each word sloppier the faster I write, ink spewing itself then drying awkwardly on my pinky cause lefties drag when they write.

   The more I think the greater intensity the daydream is. It's like I'm in the fantasy itself. Don't get me wrong though, I like romance just as much as the next person does. But there's just something about spontaneous daydreaming that gets me so heated, I can feel my blood pumping faster throughout my body it feels like I might pass out from exhaustion.

   I feel so ashamed but when I whip my imagination out in public I just can't stop. I have to see through it to the very bitter tasting end. Does the warrior save his girlfriend from the onslaught of giant evil robots trying to crush them? I don't know, but what I do know is that I love to use my imagination while I daydream.

Especially in public.

My lunchtime consists of either not eating or stuffing my face till the words "fat ***" crawl out of my friends mouth. The words sting me like a bee or a metaphor that's been overused like...being stung by a bee. Let's think about this for a minute though, think about whether or not I should feel guilty for my pleasures. I started starving myself sophomore year, the words breakfast lunch and dinner made me want to puke out the hatred I have for a body whose done nothing to me. At one point I tried to love myself, tried to show that food isn't the enemy it's just the voices in my head that tell me it is. "You should lose weight." "You're out of shape" "Fat ***", these count for each stretch mark I have on my body that crept up slowly and silently on me like a murderer to his victim. One was from my dad, two was from my friends, three was from my mom cause she said I was so handsome, four cause I don't deserve to eat, five cause I want to be pretty. Six because guys like me don't get to be pretty.
   It doesn't end easily or quickly. I've gone from overweight to underweight to a healthy weight to a weight where I pull back the flabs of skin so I can count my ribs one by one again. I've even gotten to the point where if somebody tells me I look good all I can think is that they're lying. I see a difference between fat and fat, the words itself form the gelatinous image you imagine when thinking of them, sounding sour as it comes off my tongue. You don't have to be a girl to have an eating disorder, a ****** up concept that society hasn't quite grasped yet.

I think about a lot when I get high. For example, I think about how pretty I think you are or how maybe I should smoke a little more cause I'm not as high as I was five minutes ago, but let's play this out just to be safe. I think about what it means to be alive and how, as bad as it sounds, can only appreciate myself in a positive way is after I smoked enough to incapacitate an elephant.

   I think about what it's like when we make love or how my nails are really short, almost bled to the stub cause I can't deal with my every day problems twenty-four-seven. I think about how I wish humans had super powers, that I could fly into the air like a falcon or pick up a car and throw it. I take a hit and then another, think about how gross **** tastes and smells but I love the after effects.

   I think about how I should get more sleep or how school makes me want to **** myself. I think about what it'd be like if dad didn't leave or if I suddenly grew wings...do you uh, think that's cool? I think about how we're all grains of sand and at any moment we could die. The Earth could catch on fire and we'd burn to embers, smoke rising.

(to be continued I'm too tired and high to finish this).

In my dreams, you still look at me like you love me.
In my dreams, you still kiss me like you love me.
In my dreams, you still act like you wanna see me.
In my dreams, you still talk to me.

In my dreams, I'm pretty.
In my dreams, I'm skinny.
In my dreams I'm rich.
In my dreams, I'm a hero.

In my dreams, dad didn't leave.
In my dreams, my brother isn't *******.
In my dreams, the ones I love don't leave me.
In my dreams, I am dead.

In my dreams, you will call me.
In my dreams, when I'm upset.
In my dreams, You will soothe me.
In my dreams, You still love me.

What use is a sailboat if it does not float?
What use is a shell if it does not welcome a host?
What use is a razor if it's not used for cutting?
What use is a body if not for *******?

I watch from afar but nobody hears,
my screams or calls for help.
The shiny blades they look so pretty,
I wish I saw more meaning than it being my kind of dope.

The Zombies are so loud,
with insistent filler for silence.
I remain quiet only to hope that
one day I will be free.

The razor bites into my skin like a wolf attacking it's prey. Blood drips out and oozes into a pool, cuts further into me till I can't hold in my tears any longer. I want to cry out in pain but know well enough I don't deserve even that. The thoughts take over my body, cut deeper till I know I'll feel the pain for days.

I'm not good enough for her. For anyone. I deserve pain. It rips out chunks of who I am, causing me to feel nothing. Just nothing. Alone, forever. I'll always. always. be alone.

The razor bites into me. I am nothing. I become nothing. I was nothing. I never was anything special.

I look at my little sister. She's beautiful and tragic,  like a metaphor. Or a cigarette or an odd cat. I look at her and see the same emptiness inside of me, only there's more hope for her. How do you tell somebody that you care for them? I don't think I've ever really cared for many people in a sibling kind of way. That requires an emotional connection that maybe I just lack. Like a wire in my head that was cut early on or misplaced in my head.

   Dear sister, I write you a poem. A letter. A song. I'm losing my mind, I'm going insane. Knowing that all I care about could just disappear within an instant. I don't want to lose my friends don't want to lose my sister. I was never close to my brothers it isn't fair if I lost you too. What is it you think of? What do you think about? I see you playing the piano and wish I could do that too. I'd ask you to teach me but I'm too shy to do that. I don't know if anyone's said it, but I'm proud of you. I see you trying your best and it's okay to do that. Take baby steps at a time cause the world is cruel but it seems to like babies to maybe you can trick it. I know, I've tried. Am trying. Trying harder?
   I don't know what it is I really want to tell you. You should know though I love you. I have a hard time telling people that. Have a hard time expressing feelings without suddenly wanting to cry or rip my arm to pieces. You'll be okay sister dear, I know you will.

Darkness is replaced by light. Like a cup of water it's poured out of the soul and filled with goodness that the boy tries to take in. He knows the darkness can take hold easily so he closes the door says babe I can't open it you aren't good for me. The darkness isn't a girl it isn't a person it's him it's who he is or was or is or was or isn't at all and never was. The boy grows tired, mind going faster than an old Windows computer which if you don't know isn't really fast at all. Speed-dial static manifests in his mind he craves a cigarette he's never smoked or some **** he cannot ****. He won't dip his fingers into greed so instead he'll dip his fingers into ****, or friends who smoke **** or just friends who he knows aren't good for him. One's who call him fat *** even though they probably don't know that he'd spent approximately two years starving himself so the one time he indulges they decide to say that. To call him fat and put him down why is it that he chooses the things that aren't good for him? Every. Single. Time.
  
   The computer finally boosts up faster, words spill out faster than the darkness coming out of him so finally he has something to write about. His angst turned bitter spills out, his anger spills out, his sadness spills out there's just a various amounts of spilling from his body like an **** in Japan he's soaked in juices...of emotion.

   (I can't think of anything else so end).

I feel so tired
confused
depressed
full of anxiety.
I need to sleep
need to get my head on straight
instead of crooked
or off
or down.
I feel so confused
don't know how to get rid of my problems
get help
get sleep
get happy.
I need to recharge
need to...
need to...
need t...
need..
nee
ne
n
....

Woman are the most dangerous people on the planet. And yes, I said people. Not some flimsy model you see in a magazine not some girl playing with dolls I mean Woman. A person. A living creature set upon this Earth to manage somehow the messes that men make up. A person whose entire being is creating and giving life, who without we would almost virtually go extinct.

   See the thing Men don't realize is that whilst in the figurative kitchen, the woman is (I'd hope) planning on some way to **** him. Because there's a fine line between asking somebody to get you something in the case that you're lazy, and degrading who they are to the point that you think their sole purpose is breathing for your ****** needs.

   As much as I hate to admit it and that it disgusts me in a way, I came from my mother. If you think about it we were all pushed about of a birth canal, put forth in the light. Screaming because holy **** it's cold where am I what am I who are you? A woman whom you'll end up calling mom has put you into the world and she could have taken you out before you were fully formed. Babies are clay ready to be molded only we aren't supposed to be the molders, we just help shape it.

   See the reason that I want to be a woman is that I feel uncomfortable in my own skin, I feel guilty being a man. I am guilty for what man has done what man continues to do. Sexism goes both ways but you cannot tell me it doesn't lean towards her than it does him. If I were a woman I would be powerful. I would be ****. Even if I wasn't **** at all I would rock that skirt harder than I do my skinny jeans. I would laugh with my girlfriends I would wear makeup and not wear makeup and be what guys like to call a ***** cause I don't want to blow them. Blow yourself *******.

   What I cannot change is the fact that I am a guy. I say guy things and do "guy" things. I smoke **** with my guy friends and sometimes let out a remark I hate myself later for saying. I think more about ******* than I do about what's happening in our government, but don't let that make you think that I won't stand against my male friends for woman. That I'll let them give me **** for wanting to wear a skirt or a woman's shirt. That they can get off with calling my friend a **** cause she sleeps with the same amount of men that my guy friend does woman. I know I'm not the best example of feminism in men but at least I'm trying to be something different than the same old sexist thread.

The road I've traveled down has been cracked more times than pavement, each splinter in cement more vicious than the next. The brush that tries to stop my way is overgrown three times as much as the noose I want so badly to wrap around my neck. See when I hurt you I realized that the only option I have is to end the story, the one where the boy fell for the girl and the girl fell for the guy and they almost lived happily ever after. Only the boy had demons and at night his arm turned canvas his knife a paintbrush. He splashed splinters of blood over his arm, dug trenches for soldiers to hide in. My love I am sorry, I didn't mean to turn out this way so I promise when the boy turns back, when the artist puts down his paintbrush then I will emerge. From the shadows I will rise, rise faster and better than before like a phoenix only death can bring rebirth !

   My love I did not mean to harm you. I don't mean to sound like the pounding of fists or the downing of a bottle. I do not mean to be angry or to raise my voice. You forget that one outlash at you is a thousand lashes for me. A uncontrolled temper of a second means I deserve a thousand deaths. Means I deserve not your forgiveness no, that would be too easy. It means I deserve hell, deserve to be cut open like my skin to my razorblade splashing paint onto canvas ******* pain out of my skin my love. I do not mean, to be an *******. I don't have an excuse except for that my family raises my tempers and you were just unfortunate to be the target.

   My love. I am so sorry that I am a coward. That you've become stuck with a minuscule of a man. I can only hope that my death, untimely or otherwise will bring a better life for you. I am the phoenix. And like a phoenix I will gladly embrace death.

I remember when the days felt golden because I, felt emotion. Hotter than lava burning brighter than gold I was alive. I remember days twisted into nights well the days feel more like the nights now my daze complicates my thoughts. My thoughts complicate my emotions I feel like when I go on that viking dragon pirate ship ride you know the one. The one that flies high, makes your stomach twist into knots makes you want to throw up. Pure ecstasy when you fall down I am falling down. Down deeper than I ever meant to go sometimes I feel like I need to go need to find where I started and climb back up.

   I remember when you looked at me and it looked like maybe I was able to save you. Now I need to be saved and I feel like I’m being left alone, to my demons they don’t take a day off. Thoughts don’t take a day off. Memories, like itching in my brain they don’t take a day off. Itching in my brain it’s like my own cruel version of PTSD, made up by scars on my mind I swear baby I’ll get better I just need to take some time. It feels like I’m gambling and trust me I’m not a gambling man I don’t know the difference between black jack and poker so imagine my cards on the table I’m being forced a hand I don’t want. I never asked for any of this I never meant to be the cause of your sadness I just wanted what was best for you.

   I know it’s not the logical solution, so imagine this: It’s like my brain is attacking itself, it’s the big bang imploding, exploding I am a supernova. A nuclear reactor going in the red zone, a plate of eggs being cooked on the pan. Suicide never seemed like such a good choice but you know that’s where mental illness comes to play, where my demons aren’t demons I know they aren’t it feels like it though so where do I go from here? Where do I go on this stepping stone path? I want to get better for you I don’t want you to leave or be burdened by my pain I am stuck, I am scared. I need to know things will be okay that maybe you still want to fight for us but I can’t trust the doctors, I can’t trust the mental ward. It’s in my veins this mistrust maybe a therapist would work and I’m two sided on the pills.

   And so I think how to get out of the hole I’ve dug and dug but no answers were ever found. I feel misplaced or misused or overused or something I Can’t. Quite. Grasp.

   I think of the days that were golden. When you looked at me with such happiness and it’s still there but it’s my own fault if that disappears. It’s always going to be my fault. So please, don’t be surprised when one day I am gone. If that day ever comes at least understand I went down fighting. My thoughts in the form of some devilish creature, I grasped it’s neck and it grasped mine. But it’s grip was tighter. At least know that I love you.

I want to be a superhero. I want to shoot heats beams from my eyes like I shoot...spit, from my uh, mouth. I want to save people in the burning building. Lift girders with a finger and hope with my words. I'd give food to the poor and teach respect to the rich.
   I want to show the kid on the ledge that the bully is the loser and not him. That he has a life to live and what an ******* says is just a bunch of ****. And no matter how many times he jumps I'll pull him back on the ledge, show him that the hero he looks up to was just like him. Show him miracles happen and if he's lucky he'll become the hero in his eyes. Show him scars are scars and they're just out battle wounds, that even his hero gets hurt sometimes.
   I want to be like Tony Stark. Have an ark reactor in my chest powering a suit of armor. Knowing that any second my heart will be torn apart. Be like the Hulk cause I have such anger inside that sometimes I want to turn green and break things.
   I want to have the power of Thor, and show others that despite their expectations that deep down I have something they won't ever have: Compassion.
   I want to be a superhero. Because despite my expectations I am a hero in someone else's eyes. In another world, place, dimension I am the hero I want to be. And I know that eventually I will be a hero. I may not have powers but I have enough hope that maybe one day: I will.  
   But this isn't the future. I am in the present. And right now I am not the hero. Maybe I'm the villain.

I don't acknowledge you as my father. "Dad" has become a meaningless title, given to a hollow shell of a man. I remember the days you looked at me. Each second better than the last. I was the stone temple to a monk. I remember the last time you looked near me. Not wanting to know that I am part of your creation. Not wanting to see my mom. Not wanting to acknowledge a mistake.

(Insert other parts of the group here).

The days I counted, the days I felt, like nothing more than a mistake. I can count on my arm tally marks cut into my skin, I can hear your hollow words, see that face in my reflection. If I knew how this life would turn out maybe I could've cut the rope, made a difference, let love in, Be. Happy. Maybe if I forget about you long ago I could have become who I should have been. And not what you turned me into.

My life ran full of poke ***** and if mom got ice cream or not.
It wasn't when will my next cut be or will this be the day I starve again.
Life used to be climbing castle walls in my head and rolling down *****, brown green hills.
Life changes in the blink of an eye, though you don't quite…see it, till it's too late.

When I was 10 I had my first pokemon game, I leveled up my charmander with love and affection cause I didn't own a real animal.

When I was 14 I made my first cut.

15 I fell in love and didn't let her know till I was ready to die three years later.

You see I let time slip me by, like a friend who smoked too much *** or a lover gone wrong.
I hid away my scars till they were distant memories but man did I dig them up.
My past has been sour, like the milk my uncle drank.
Curled were the relationships I'd made.
The thoughts made me want to puke.
White buzzing was what went through my head.

I'm 18. I have a stable relationship. I'm getting married. Pokemon are my other friends when the real one's aren't there. I won't let time slip me by now, despite how wrong my past went.

There is a boy who has grown into a man. A boy whose a boy and has room to grow.
He's hurting. He stands up around the lunchroom to throw away what he made himself eat, hearing voices everywhere knowing none will remember him. Only but a small few will know his legacy and maybe they'll tell tales about him.
   The boy looks at his friends yearningly, knowing that only a couple truly accepts him. Truly…loves him. The boy looks at his arms, covered in scars they reflect the war going on in his mind. A war of voices, screaming. Insane. Deranged. The boy wants to cry, wants to embrace his friends. He wants to be accepted and told it'll be okay.
   Will it be okay? Will he come back from the war? He shakes, both his head and body. Craving what destroys him, he sits back. Will it be okay? Will it be okay? It'll be okay. It'll be okay.

I'm tired of men thinking that what a girl does or dresses as defines her. That what she does in bed reflects what's going on in her head. I have friends who call girls ***** because they decided to give the time to more than one guy over the span of several years or months. That how girls dress is cause to say how much they would "destroy that". **** shaming doesn't go far in my books, I have far less tolerance for that than I do hearing you idiots talk.
   Hearing this gives me more thoughts about changing the *** on the outside to what reflects myself on the inside. I live under the patriarchy of America just to hear in school idiots blabble on about things they think they know. Like they've lived their lives in glory when really their glory is now. It goes downhill from here so while you're living the high school life I want you think, just think for once that what you say really reflects the ignorance of America. That you are the Idiot America, the reason men have such a bad reputation.

The time it'll take you to realize I'm gone is enough time for me to run away, slowly taking myself apart, like a jigsaw puzzle. I'll be in a hundred pieces and before you can even find all of them I will have already been gone. Disappeared into the wind, like leaves falling in Maine autumn.
   I hope you cry the hardest you ever did, and realize that it wasn't myself in the end who killed me. It was you. You talking behind my back, you making me feel so incompetent, you thinking I wanted it to be about myself.
   I hope you realize that I cared more about you and the other than myself or getting better. I relapsed again and again cause I was dealing with your problems, I never said not to talk to me. I let you in, and in the end I just got hurt.
   I'm sorry about your mom. I'm sorry that I'm not the best son. I'm sorry that I'm never good enough. I'm sorry when this finally ends.

The day you left I curled my hands into fists, unravelling them into fingers that just barely hanged on. As if on hinges they swung and transformed into claws that I used to pull out my heart.

   Still pulsating in my hands I watched the pain leak out slowly, like water seeping into the ground. I watched my hurt and my greed fight for the light of living while I glanced out at you walking away. I don't know why but I'm sure you had your reasons. And that's fine. Everyone needs an escape plan, but I wish that plan included me.

   I wish you were closer I wish so many more were closer. So many faces I call family are farther away than I ever wanted. They live their lives without me so where's the ******* point? Where's my happy ending if the only ending is me being stranded in the dust?

   I'm selfish for wanting you. Not in a way that a man desires a woman, in a way that the loneliest person desires a friend. If I could I'd do anything in my power to keep you in my life. Cause when I love something I love it harder than I should. Lovers, friends, it's the same for both. I'm equally heartbroken and wish to have their names carved into my skin. I know best when I say that scars are there forever so if I could I'd have your name cut into me.

   The pain would hurt the same but it wouldn't be so bad if it meant I could keep a piece of you. I'd give up all I had if it meant for once I'd keep a friend.

Lately I've been looking for reasons to live. Not because I...plan on committing suicide soon. Because I lost my reason and way. I've walked a path of uncertainty, pain, filth, selfishness. I've belittled myself over countless mistakes, for errors in my genetic coding that makes me who I don't want to be.

   After all the cuts, scratches, burns and scars I think I'm ready to get better. Not through whittled down razorblades but through love and kindness. Like the theory of Nature Vs Nurture, it's not my nature holding me back, it's my lack of nurture. I'm an alcoholic ready to give up his bottle, a gambler whose chips are up. A suicide case who doesn't want his life to start with a person and end...with a rope.

   Lately I've been looking for reasons to live. 59 reasons for why I should live, 23 people who I hold close to my heart. Even if we don't talk, even if it's hard to breathe at night, even when there's no way out, even when I sob and reach out like a drowning man for oxygen I look, so much harder than anyone else for a reason to live.

   I think I just...lost my way. I'm looking for a reason to live...I'm selfish. I'm caring. I'm lost and I'm learning. I'm not a bad person but I'm no saint. I'm trying to do this for me.

My bones ache for a body they don't have. Stomach empty I look in the mirror unsatisfied with what I see. It's a stranger. Intense, pale, fat. Skin should cling to bones like rubber to skin in the water, instead it hangs distastefully to my eyes.

******* in I then breathe out the stale air I force to my lungs. The urges are never weak enough. Food looks so good though I know I cannot indulge in what I see as my sin.

My bones ache for a body they don't have. I ache for a body I don't have. I want to be thin, beautiful. I will never be, not to my eyes. To me my body is just a stranger that I'm forced to be with.