Don't
tell me
you've lost
hope
as you
look at me
with
desperation.
Liquid
diamonds
escape your
eyes
and flow
down
rosy
cheeks.

But
I saw the
shimmer
of light
through
your
black
soul
and that's
when
I realized
that
coldness
doesn't
belong
in the heat
of your
smoldering
heart.

You're
a beautiful
mess
torn between
demons
and angels,
darkness
and light,
hope
and
despair.

Maybe
you need
to take
another look
at yourself
and see
the things
I see.

Like
the way
your eyes
fill with
wonder
as you
speak of
waterfalls
and sunsets
and those
nighttime
adventures
at 3:00
in the
morning
when you
give in to
insomnia
because you
think
too much
and I know
it hurts
but I say,
stop.

Free
your
lovely
mind,
be at
peace
with
yourself
and
maybe
you'll
sleep
tonight.

But
before
you do,
remember
that I saw
the light
in you
when you
were at your
darkest
moment.
It radiates
off you.
It illuminates
you.

Darkness
doesn't
belong
in the fire
of your soul.
So ignite the
flame and
don't let
the spark
die out
because
if it does,
then I'll die,
too.

But
don't
tell me
you've lost
hope
because
hope is
what got
you here,
hope is
what made
you stay,
and hope is
what I have
for you
that one day
you'll see
yourself
the way
I see
you.

To whomever is reading this,

First off, let it be known that I do not seek attention, nor do I wish it even in the slightest. See, I most certainly do prefer to be on my own. The spotlight's far too bright anyway. Or at least, that's what I'm trying to tell myself. However, I still can't seem to shake the feeling that this could very well be a cry for help, and that somehow, these words are my last hope. But then again, it is just another humid night, and maybe I'm only writing to make use of my time as I've come to the realization that I won't be falling asleep at any point soon.

I thought I was doing better, I honestly did. I'd started talking to my friends again. Laughing, sharing jokes, maybe even throwing in a genuine smile every once in a while. I mean, I sure as hell knew that I still had a long ways to go, but, things were finally starting to look up for me. Or so it seemed.

What I've never been able to quite fully understand, is how quickly everything can change. In the blink of an eye, really. Life is not a constant; it's a rollercoaster ride filled with ups and downs and bumps and turns and highs and lows and scary moments. A good day can turn into a horrible day in just a fraction of a second, because that's just the way it goes. We're supposed to grin and bear it because, well, we have to. Things change and people change, and life doesn't stop for anybody.

But tell me, what happens when it's a bad day after a bad day after a bad day? What happens when your friends give up on you? When there's no more jokes to be told and a fake smile is the only thing that will force the corners of your mouth to curve upward? See, maybe I was wrong before. Maybe life really is a constant sometimes; because it seems to me that all I've got are constant feelings of darkness. Depression. Loneliness. Regret. Hatred.

I don't hate the world though, trust me. It's a beautiful place. And maybe, just maybe, if things get better I'll sail the seven seas and travel to all the different countries and just let the greatness of this world engulf me and swallow me whole. I'd like that, I really would. You see, I love this world. It's above and beyond anything I could ever imagine. I don't even hate life, for that matter. The very fact that we are here today has got to be the biggest miracle there is. But then there's my life, which is a whole different story.

Don't get the wrong idea though. I am not complaining about my life. I have a roof over my head, I have food to eat, clean water, an amazing family, and so much more. There are children in this world who I'm sure would love to be me; children who don't have the money to attend school, or even to eat a decent meal. There are people getting *****, assaulted, bullied, and treated poorly every day. I am so lucky that I don't have to deal with any of that. So, why am I so unsatisfied? Why can't I just be grateful for everything that I have?

The thing is, I hate myself. Not only that though, I hate the way I've chosen to live my life. I hate the person looking back at me in the mirror each day, and I hate these thoughts in my head; screaming insults at me every second, loud enough to drown out everything that is good. I've forgotten how to appreciate the little things; like the fresh smell after a day of rain, or long walks on the beach, or laying down on cool grass to look up at the stars on a hot summer night. I guess I'm just too preoccupied with the things I should have done or shouldn't have done, not even thinking about the things that I still can do.

I'm a disappointment. A failure. I have put humans to shame. Why am I still here, when I clearly do not belong in a world of such beauty? Everything I touch gets spoiled; even myself. I should never have been born, but I was. And here I am still, but for what reason? What good can ever become of me? Should I just end it all right here and now, or would that do more harm than good? I don't know...

What I do know is this: I used to have hopes and dreams, always wishing that things would turn out in the end. But it's different now. I'm plummeting down into a tunnel of darkness, and the light that once could be seen near the end is now burnt out. I have no way of escaping.

Hope all is well on your end.

Much love,

Ridley

I know an infant
who came into this world
with a smile on her face
on the eleventh hour
of the eleventh day
of the eleventh month
bringing joy and happiness
to a day of sadness
and there were no tears
no screaming or confusion
just silence
and a look of wonder could be seen in her eyes
she was ready to start this wonderful world.

I know a child
who was the class clown
always ready to crack a new joke
or turn someone's frown upside down
she wished her baby fat would soon go away
but shrugged it off
'cause she knew it would some day
tears were only shed over scraped knees
and mom's soothing words
would set her at ease
no insecurities, no worries
she had her whole life ahead of her.

I know a teenager
who was no longer the class clown
but instead a shy girl
with very few friends still hanging around
she thought she was fat
(even though she was at average weight)
and felt different from the others
still laughing, still smiling
and the tears didn't fall
'til she was alone in her bedroom
but she stayed strong through it all
hoping that life would soon be better.

I know a young adult
who sits alone in class
stressed about choosing a career
for a future that she doesn't want to be a part of
she starves because she's fat
(even though she's below average weight)
wearing long sleeved shirts to hide the scars
that trail up and down her arms
friends mistake her fake smiles as happiness
oblivious to the desperation in her laugh
the façade wears off when she gets home
and her broken heart splits in half
while she wishes that her life would end.

But the thing is...

I know that infant
as if she was born yesterday
and I know that child
as if I saw her on the street an hour ago
and I know that teenager
as if I passed her in the halls today
and I know that young adult
as if she is someone I'll meet tomorrow

They are my past
my present
and my future
they are the person I was
the person I am
and the person I will be

*That girl is me and always will be
unless I find the strength to change reality.

It's four o'clock in the morning and I should be far away from this bed
in the land of dreams where anything can happen

Yet I still lay here, replaying your words in my head over and over again
and memorizing each dreadful sentence you spoke

You are a writer, and I guess that I am too
but my thoughts can't pour down onto paper half as well as yours do

Not only can you write though
heck, you can even talk

I've listened to you speak of your hopes and dreams, your past and sorrows
and to be quite honest, it didn't matter what you spoke of

Because every single word flowed out of your mouth so beautifully that I was mesmerized
even if they were words that I didn't want to hear

I... just don't think we're right for each other at this point in time.
Don't you understand? Don't you feel the same way?

Of course I understand.

I knew all along that I would never be good enough for you
a person of such beauty, such wisdom, such potential

I think you're beautiful and have so much potential for greatness but I don't think you see it.

Beautiful?
I am not beautiful

I am scared
scared of life and everything in it

I am empty
my heart feels as if it has shrunk down to nothing and I'm numb

I am unworthy
there is not another human being on this earth who could ever be satisfied with someone like me

I'm sorry.

Now, with the tears pouring down my face
I realize that I hate myself

I hate myself for never being good enough
or smart enough, or beautiful enough

But most of all
I hate myself for knowing that I deserve this

*Goodbye...

I know I shouldn't think about you
but I do.

Let me tell you a story about a busy steet in a busy city in a busy country in a busy world.

Somewhere near the end of this busy street in a busy city in a busy country in a busy world, there was a flowershop.

It was a lovely old place; an elegant building surrounded by beautiful gardens with daisies and daffodils and roses. It had bird baths where the cheery cardinals and bluejays stopped by for an afternoon splash, and even a sprinkler for the young children to run around in while their mommy's and daddy's were picking out pretty flowers.

Now, inside this flowershop, there were rows upon rows of pots filled with any type of plant you could imagine: dragonsnaps, lilies, zinnias, tulips, the whole lot. Baskets of flowers hung from the ceiling, overflowing with bright colours. Every once in a while, petals would rain down and the entire shop would look magical.

Everyday, people of all ages would dash into this flowershop. Men in suits, looking to find the perfect gift for their dates. Ladies in dresses, picking out just a little something to look nice in a vase on their dinner table. And of course, the gardeners, with their overalls and ***** fingers.

So, as I said, busy people on a busy street in a busy city in a busy country in a busy world would dash into this busy flowershop, then dash back out and get on with their busy lives. Always looking for the most ravishing type of flower, the ones that could catch your eye as soon as you entered the shop. Never focusing on anything else.

What no one realized was that there was a small flower placed near the back wall of the shop. It was never moved; always been in the same exact place ever since it arrived at the flowershop years and years ago. The owners had stopped watering it, so the flower was beginning to shrivel up. Most of the petals had fallen off and were now laying in a sad little pile on the ground, and the few that remained had turned the colour of black.

The little flower got sicker and sicker every day, but it never lost hope. Every time the suited man stopped in, or the lady with the dress, or the ***** gardener; the flower would use its last bit of strength to make itself noticed. It stood on its tippy toes, perking up and spreading its wilted petals and frail stem as much as it could.

No one saw.

Then, one day, when the owner was sweeping the floor of the flowershop, he saw something near the back wall. Something broken. Crumpled. Blackened. Ugly. Dead. Something that once was beautiful until it stopped being noticed; stopped being loved.

You see, in a busy flowershop on a busy street in a busy city in a busy country in a busy world, no one's ever going to notice a wallflower until it wilts.