"It's bad for you." He said.

"I know it's bad," she replied, "but I want to do it anyway."

I hope you know that I'll always hold you;

always catch you when you fall.

You're so strong, with your proud chin hoisted upwards.

No one would ever see the slouch in your shoulders,

unless you wanted them to.

The tiredness of your eyes;

deep purple smudges on your eyelids.

Your smile may settle in a delightful curve

but it doesn't set in your eyes like the sun.

I will catch you, I promise;

If you should choose to fall, do not be wary.

You won't hit the hard ground, the cold earth.

But you will hit my arms.

And you can just rest there.

Rest there, my dear.

And don't worry about anything.

You don't have to speak;

I will listen to the way your voice sounds,

sincere or not;

I will catch you, darling.

If you should ever fall.

Here I am
Living proof
That YOLO is a false statement
Because here I have lived
Over a million times
Walked in the shoes
Of a million people
And those who have seen the life
That is either as bad as mine
Or as good as mine
Have become the inspiration to every poem
I am not just your average poet
I am the voice of the speechless
The ears to the unheard
Why should the rejected be refused
We still bleed
Even if we bleed
Blood darkened with poison
You Only Live Once is a false statement
Because I have killed myself
Over a million times
Within the words
I have painted onto lines
I am an artist
Words that might be cold
Words that might be heavenly
But still words
Intended for an audience
That can comprehend their meaning
I have murdered millions of people
Within the words
Yet they still stand
They still try to tear me down
They still reject the refused
I ****, I commit suicide
Every time I close my eyes
So continue to use a statement
False in every way
You Only Live Once
You Die You **** Every Chance You Are Given

I noticed something was wrong when I stopped singing. This was my outlet, my way of expressing all of my feelings. Everything I had ever thought was brought to life by song. Then I stopped, and it was all your fault. No song seemed to describe how I felt about you. I liked you. I hated you. I adored you. I cursed you. But most of all, I loved you.

So I started writing. To cover up my feelings with metaphors and similes that nobody but me understood.

I've thought about showing you these writings. I knew you would understand them. You were so much like me. You knew my thoughts better than I did. But I was scared. Scared to show you how I felt because like you with the world, I was scared that you wouldn't accept me.

When I became aware of this, how I felt, I became distant. I didn't want you to see how I had grown to love you. I knew you would. You were like me. You knew something was wrong and when you asked me about it, I avoided you even more. This hurt me so much more than I think it did you.

I stopped singing. This one dead spark is what lit up a whole new world of mysteries and confusion about you and me alike. That was it. One simple thing.

I stopped singing.

I am so sick of being that girl
The one who sits awkwardly
Tries not to show too much on my face
But here I am
I watch all around as people
Stare
Judge each other
And it isn’t even me that I am tearing the roots out of my faith in humanity over

I watch
And I listen
And all I perceive is laughter
“Oh my gosh that was totes hilarious”
No.
It wasn’t.
Those people you laugh at…
People of Wal-Mart
That crazy chick
The person at the end of all of your jokes
Harmless as they seem
Those people are people too
They have people who love them
Loved ones losing them to the horrors of the person that you force them to see in the mirror each day
Each breath
Rigid and Choked
Trying to be the person on the inside
“Only inner beauty matters…”

Then why won’t you let them be more than
The punch line.

I know
It’s harmless
Everyone laughs
It’s funny

And everybody laughing
And joking
And smiling
As they look past your soul
Just searching for a witty response
Instead of a human being

It isn’t harmless.


If I fall
And I can’t even breathe
I can’t even tell who I am
And no one is around to hear my cries for help
No one hears…

Do I still exist?

People stop wanting to exist when they feel like their life doesn’t exist.
I’ve been there before

So

Just stop.
Stop.
Stop.
Just stop.
Think for a second.

What if that was you?
What if it was your best friend?
Your everything?
And their existence is laughed off.

Until it shrivels and dies.
No more growth.
Not ever.

We are walking uphill through a snowstorm of meaningless arrows
Poison soaking the tips
And I can’t fight them forever.
So please.
Somebody help.

And even though you may finally hear my cries
And cry with me
You keep on shooting
Not even thinking
Because it is only natural now.

Please.
Think.
Stop.
Think.
Let me go.
Let everyone try to figure out who they are
What they want to be
Without pushing waves of stereotypes
And laughing at their dreams
Scoffing their entire existence away

"We hardly speak any more."
I know it's true,
I hardly speak at all.

We used to often talk,
staying up late, letting
our words play their games.

She asked if I'd rather
live alone on an island --
in complete solitude --
or be trapped in an apartment,
only able to watch people walk by.

I said I'd rather watch the people walk by;
at least then  I could pretend that happy
people still existed.

Today it feels like I'm in that apartment,
watching people walk around me.
They don't seem happy.

I smile at them;
they never smile back.
I wonder if something's wrong with me.

I stopped talking when I started writing.
I already spelled everything out on paper,
and the words never crawl back into my mind.
If those words ever get back home,
I'll tell 'em all how I feel:

One:

You can't help anyone with words,
who needs something done.
A sentence about your love
means nothing when you're
twenty-seven hundred miles away.

Two:

Strangers are more alluring than
people you know closely;
that, my dear, is why I'm terrified
of getting any closer to you.
From a distance, you're so beautiful.

Three:

Sure, we spent a few weeks cuddled up
in your room; but your lifestyle is the reason
that I fled from Southern California.
I don't want things.

Four:

He's just going to end up killing you.
One instance of abuse should be enough
to send you packing. You crawled back for more.
I understand -- too well -- the lies that get you trapped.
I keep waiting for that phone call.

Five:

A woman should never be a reason
to abandon your old family;
although I see how her children
are your chance for redemption.

Six:

I wish we talked more often;
more than once every few months.
You're intelligent and articulate,
and the hour or two we spend
(not often enough)
fills me with hope for the world.

Forgive me for forgetting
The purpose of this poetry

I got lost in the prose
And diluted the feeling
Distracted enough
To not kiss you completely

I feel like a man who has eaten
Food with onions in it
Self-conscious syntax between my teeth

My tongue attempting to describe
All the things your lips are like

I forget that I am supposed to feel first
Then write