i find myself restless this time of year
resolutions made months ago still seem so unclear
and the unapologetic rays of the springtime sun
will soon shine light
on the scars so carefully hidden
under winter's thick blanket

You hated how I never listened to your music
and now I listen to it every day

I could never say the words
"I love you"
but you always said it to me anyway

I remember that copper ring you made
that was too large for my finger
so you tied it to a string and
put it around my neck

I was a wreck that day at the airport
when I had to go home
and you had to stay
and I bought you those
two stuffed animals
to keep you company
while I was away
and I should've known
I should've known
things would never be the same

You never tell me
that you miss me anymore
but I still miss you anyway

I remember those months
that we lived together
in room twelve
with the ***** dishes
and the duct taped windows
and the sour candy container
filled with your
partly smoked cigarettes

And now the silence between us
roars at me like thunder
and I'm suffocating from
that copper ring necklace
and your songs are a playlist
forever stuck on repeat
forever stuck on repeat

And I try to cover my ears
but I can't push the sound away

And I know that I can't blame you for it
but I will anyway

There are two types
of punches
in this world
and I'll take them
both.
Maybe one
right in the face
before I become
the punch line
to your insensitive
little jokes
(sorry I forgot
to laugh this time.)

And even then
I'll take them gladly
as the blood
makes its acquaintance
with my tears
and my fears
become entangled
with fury.

Hurry up.

Tell me
that no one
will ever love me
and that I'm just
another ugly girl
in a ****** up world
that will do nothing
but swallow me whole
and purge me
once it tastes my
bitterness.
I'm sorry
I wasn't
sweet enough
for you.

You.
Craver of life's
toxic temptations.
Infatuations
with the
nicotine filled paper
you place
between your lips
and the horror stories
you read at three
in the morning
as you wish to become
another doomed character
created by your favourite authors.

But you didn't even bother
to realize that
our lives are the horror stories
and as much as I wanted
to put the book down
I kept screaming for more.

Always craving
but never satisfied.

And all I can hear is
daddy crying out
"You could have died!"
"You could have died!"

You
could
have
died.

I don't care,
god ******.
I thought the
tears in his eyes
would have
stopped me
but the
spilled blood
on the floor
was so taunting
and I knew
right then
that I'd
always
want
more.

I guess I really am
a *******,
because you know
for a fact that I
would kiss
the hands
that punched me
in the face

one
     too
          many
                   times

Sometimes

the cure
is more deadly
than
the disease.

This isn't poetic.



I just don't want to be here anymore

I'm not the kind of girl
who writes love poems
and I'm far from romantic
my two moods fall between
depressed and manic
I'm not charismatic
I'm far too sarcastic
and just from one ****
I can snap like elastic.

But no one has ever
been strong enough to
pull apart the barriers
that cover my heart
quite like you do,
and I know you
hate your smile
but my god
I have never seen
a face light up so much
with just the movement
of a muscle.
Tousled hair
of black and blonde
I am so fond of the way
you say my name
like it isn't something to
be ashamed of.
Like somehow,
I'm more than the sum
of my parts.
Like somehow,
I'm not just a canvas
but art.

I'm not the kind of girl
who writes love poems
but there's something about
your eyes of blue
and the way you flew
into my life
like a falling star,
slowly
then crashing
all at once
finding its way into the
dark crevice of my heart
that was nearly torn apart
but you picked up the pieces
and bandaged me together again.

And this might sound zany
but even just one night alone
makes me miss you like crazy
because when I'm with you
my mind goes all hazy
and I'm convinced
in that moment
that everything will be okay
because you are not just
a boy to me
you lessen my depression
you calm my anxiety
I'd throw away my variety
of pills just to be in your
arms forever
Elavil, Cipralex, Zoloft
are just names
and they hold nothing to you
because you are my
perfect dose of serotonin.

You said,
"I like you more than poetry"
but my words are broken vocal chords
that never should be spoken
yet when I'm with you,
the poet is awoken.
Ballads and rhymes
will fill my mind
but no matter how hard I try,
nothing I write
is worthy of you.
The most beautiful
man I know,
the most beautiful
man I ever knew.

And I say,
cut off the strings,
you marionette.
Free yourself from the
binding chains
that control your every move,
fly. Sing me a song,
you gorgeous violin.
Tear away the
thoughts from your mind
that are constantly
telling you that
you are not good enough
because my darling,
you will always be
good enough for me.

You said,
"I like you more than poetry"
and I'm not the kind of girl
who writes love poems
but I will say that poetry
is nothing without the poet.
And my god,
I ******* love the poet.

You promised
and I believed


and for that,
it was my fault.

It all comes down to loneliness
constant loneliness
when no one ever understands
how I feel
or
what's going on
and God I'm so scared
it's like my lungs might explode
from the screams that threaten to
escape from my mouth
but are too afraid to jump
and all anyone ever hears is
silence
long periods of
excruciatingly painful
silence
but there are no words
to describe the horror story
I have created in my mind
it is gruesome
it is senseless
there will be no happy ending this time
I am sorry
but I tried and tried
until I couldn't try anymore
and even then I wonder if I ever even tried at all
happy is just not in the books for me
it never was
so
goodbye happy
I know you won't be knocking on my door
anytime soon
instead I welcome sadness
full blown sadness
there is no cure
for this insanity
there is no bandage
big enough
to cover the scars
and put myself
back together again
I am torn
breaking
falling apart at the seams
and it seems to me that
no one even notices
God why can't you notice
is it because I stopped praying
is it because I stopped believing
is it because I am the
filthy
rotting
ugly creature that I am
oh
I am sorry
I am sorry
I am sorry
please just be there for my friends is all I ask
please keep my family safe is all I ask
tell them that I love them
tell them that I care
tell them that I'm sorry
oh God I am sorry
please don't look at me that way
I have too much hate in my heart
and no matter what I do
it never goes away
it never goes away
I am not the human I thought I was
I am not the person you thought you created
mom and dad
I am not like my sister
or the good people
you see outside
I am not normal
I am different
trust me
I know what I am
I see it
every day
I have never seen God
but I have seen the Devil
trust me
I have seen the Devil
it is me

See, I am just a canvas
and my favourite colour's red.

i.

Here's to you, pretty girl.

It's been quite a while since I've seen you smile but every single time that you do, just know that it brightens my day in a way that you could never understand. And I know that the hand you've been dealt with has at times made you felt like the whole world was against you, but darling, that's not true.

If only you knew the way the rest of us saw you; if only you realized that your very existence is a true blessing to each and every person you come into contact with – that your crazy laugh and witty personality are in fact the centrality of my whole world.

It seems as though God has hurled a curve ball at you which is so unfair when everyone else has merely dodged their bullets. But you caught it straight in the heart and I know that its nearly torn you apart with the weight of the world on your shoulders, and it hurts to continue standing when the pain is branding scars into your skin. But pretty girl – please – do not let these demons win. You are more than this, and trust me when I say that if I could wave a magic wand and bond your heart back together then you know I'd do it time and time again.

Of course, life isn't like that though. But despite what that monster has told you before, if you can hold on just a little more then I promise that after you grow old you're gonna look back to this day and be grateful of the fact that you had the courage to say "if I can ignore this urge then maybe I'll be okay."

ii.

Here's to you, beautiful boy.

All you ever wanted was love from your mother but only received it from your two year old brother who has not yet perceived the truth about all the pain that will arise from a mom who doesn't care enough to leave her room and a dad who does nothing but lie.

And surprise surprise, your mouth speaks of wisdom but your eyes are blind to the beauty of yourself and the wealth hidden deep inside a poor man's mind because if there's one thing that I'll ever know, it's that the richest person in this whole **** world holds nothing to your heart of gold.

Unfold your wings and learn how to fly. Rise up from the floor where you were kicked to the ground without even making a sound because you think you deserve this. But I'm telling you right now that your nerves have been shot by the place you were brought up in. A home is not a home when daddy steals all your money just to pay off a loan and mommy's already thinking about where to put her tombstone.

Get out of this place that has caused so much hate; break free from this trap you're in and make your escape. Take my hand and I'll help you land safely on a ground that's free from the mound of shattered glass you've been trying to surpass your whole life. Leave the knife behind and push the bad thoughts from your mind because it's time to get away.

iii.

Here's to you, my two warriors. My carriers of on. My musketeers.

Rest your weary eyes, I say, forget your demise and keep your eyes on the prize: life. Just keep breathing, and even at the times when your heart won't stop bleeding and your lungs start heaving and you crumple to the floor – remember this:

No matter how deep that blade slices into your soft smooth skin, no matter how much you hate yourself and long for release, no matter how much that bottle of pills tempts you into thinking it's the only thing that will ease your tired body to sleep tonight, hold onto these five words and never let them go:

*I will love you more.

Today, I will be brave.
I will admit to the fact that I still haven't found that happiness I've been searching for.
It could be the fact that I haven't looked hard enough, or maybe I've just been looking too hard.
It could be the fact that there's a hormone in our bodies called serotonin, but my therapist says that I don't produce enough and that's why I have this thing that she calls depression.

So I take pills to make me feel better and that might be weird, you can think that if you want because the truth is that I think I'm weird too. Sometimes I think my weirdness is good, I can make people laugh if I really want to and I think that's pretty cool but there's also a bad weirdness to me that makes me feel really sad even though my life truly isn't all that bad but I can't help it. I can't just tell myself that everything's going to be okay because sometimes I don't even think I believe that anymore.

But today, I will be brave.
I will admit to the fact that yes, I have scars. But you know what? I have a birth mark on my right leg. I have freckles on my arms, I have ten fingers and a heart that pumps blood into my lungs and my lungs help me breathe. I have brown eyes and approximately one hundred and fifty hairs growing out of my eyelids that protect them from dust.

Yes, maybe I have purposely tried to hurt myself but so what? People say that whatever doesn't **** you only makes you stronger. Well I must be pretty **** powerful because every day is a war between life and death and I may not think that I'm beautiful, or smart, or worthy, but I have a broken heart that's still beating and a terrifying mind that is still able to think about the children in Africa and the people suffering from cancer and the lonely girl in my class that I wish I had the courage to talk to and tell her that we are all human. We may not feel that we deserve to be alive but we have blood coursing through our veins and purity in our souls and mouths that are capable of speaking every single language in the world and brains that hold an infinite amount of knowledge and bones that allow us to move and hearts that can love.

So please, be brave.
Put the gun down. Step away from the bridge, throw the pills away, untie the knot and stay with us. Use your bones to lift your hand and place it to the left of your chest and feel the vibration of the most important ***** in your body pulsing, keeping you alive. And that, my friend, is called purpose. You are still here despite everything that's ever happened to you. You survived the day when your best friend stopped calling and the day you waited two hours for that person who never showed up and the day you got picked up early from school to have your parents watch you get beat up on the playground and that's the day when they realized that their daughter is a loser but it's okay because you survived. You ignored the monster in your mind that is constantly knocking on doors but never being let in because you had the courage to say "stop. I deserve to be happy. I deserve to feel good about myself."

You are not a freak. You are not a loser. You are not fat, you are not ugly, you are not stupid. You are sixty percent water, sixty-five percent oxygen, eighteen percent carbon and one hundred percent human. Do not hate your body, you're beautiful. Do not hate your scars. Love them. Learn from them. Be the person who can say "yes, life was a battle and I didn’t come out untouched. I was beaten down and torn apart and bleeding from the skin and the heart. But I won." You conquered the bloodiest war, and you are so brave.

Yes, life is full of grief, and tragedy, and so much pain. Life is full of evil people and sickness and days where all you want to do is just get out of this place with so much hatred and cruelty and unfairness. But I have seen someone helping a stranger on the sidewalk, children holding doors open for the elderly, and love. So much love. And that's gotta be enough. We have to find a reason. We have to discover that one thing that will save us; that one good thing in this world that will give us hope. Hope that some day, things will be better.

But today, we will be brave.
Braver than yesterday, yet not as brave as we will be tomorrow. We will wake up with a smile on our face, and we will look in the mirror and say to ourselves:

"We are not our parents, we are not our siblings, or our teachers, or our friends, or our enemies. We are only ourselves. But one day, we will become doctors, we will become writers and lawyers and activists and dancers and rock stars. We will be mothers and fathers and lovers. We will not be perfect. But one day, our bruises will heal and our scars will fade and our pain will lessen and our smiles will become genuine. We will admit to the fact that bad days happen, but we will have so many good days and those are the ones that matter. We will not be our past, we will not be our mistakes, we will not be our fallen tears or our heart aches. We will be human, and one day, we will change the world."

Every minute,
twitter receives ninety eight
thousand tweets
and facebook just got
six hundred ninety five
thousand status updates
and in the time that it took for
someone to type out
"today *****"
a heart was broken
a peanut butter jar was emptied
someone just got caught in the storm
while another girl dances in the rain
a newborn took their first breath
and someone took their last
but a caterpillar turned into a
beautiful butterfly
just as an earthworm
shrivelled up on the sidewalk.

A mathematician's son
forces himself to write down
equations out of pure fear
that his father would get angry
if he told him he'd rather be an
artist and paint a picture
of daffodils and sunsets
and maybe even the
pretty girl who sits behind him
in class but the truth is that
she could never ever like someone
who wears rounded glasses
and attends all his classes
because hey, that's not cool.
Cool is skipping school
and taking your first drag
on a cigarette and
maybe even having ***
at a stranger's house with
a strange boy who never
even cared to ask you for
your name because
it's all just a game anyway
so stop asking so much
you're losing you're losing
stop.

At this moment in time,
a father came home drunk
because his life is another word
for something that comes out of
your **** and that's when he hit
his daughter for the very first time
but it certainly won't be the last
and no one else knows but that night
she set fire to her dream catcher
because she thought
it wasn't doing its job right.
It never ever ever kept the
nightmares at bay
because they stayed with her
every night and every day
and that's when she realized that
the nightmares were coming
from inside of her head
but it's okay it's okay
daddy said tears are for
weak people and she
must be strong
because how can you not be
when everyday you endure
three punches
two smacks
and a kiss
on the lips
for good luck.

At this moment,
a girl fell down while
walking to school
while another girl
watched and laughed
and a penniless lady
is stripped of her clothing
and dancing in a way that
no one should dance
just so she could feed her infant son
who can no longer breastfeed due to
his mother's alcohol addiction
but somewhere somehow
there's a rainbow coming up
after a day of grey skies
and a constant raincloud that
drooped over everyone
but it's okay because
a dying wildflower
just had the most
amazing drink
and you might think
that this life has no meaning
since we're all going to die
eventually and I know
that your cheeks hurt
from smiling and your
mouth can't tell
anymore lies
I'm happy I'm happy
don't look me in the eye.

Just remember that we
all feel pain and we all
have those days where
we just can't win
but let me tell you:
at this moment in time,
you're beautiful
you're beautiful
you're beautiful
and you'll be
okay.

I always knew I was different.

Although, at the time, I couldn't pinpoint it exactly–
what was I doing that was so contrary
to the behaviour of other young girls?
Surely it wasn't the way I dressed, or the way I looked;
I'd always been self conscious
but even the darkest part of me knew
that on the outside I appeared just the same
as everyone else.

No, it was none of that.

It was my thoughts, my mind, my brain.

It was my inability to form a normal friendship.

Much to my dismay,
it was always the unusual misfits who latched on to me–
with the broken families and the shrunken hearts
and the hole in their soul that I was expected to fix
but I was just as just as cracked as they were
even if I appeared whole on the surface.

And even though I longed to be one of those girls
who belonged to a circle of bubbly friends
that never had to worry about not having enough
people to play grounders or double-dutch,
I continued to clutch on to every bleeding girl
in hopes that something good would come
out of two loners being lonely together.
But the truth was that it wasn't her fault,
nor was it the next strange girl that
followed me one day at recess.
The fault was mine, just like it always was,
because deep down I knew that I was the one
who wanted them.

When I grew older,
I also grew weaker and even meeker
after friendships became broken beyond repair
and the fault was mine, just like it always was,
because I may not have been the one with the
broken family or the strange disease
but instead I suffered from a sickness of the mind
that screamed at me day after day after day.

Then finally one of those days I realized something:
I don't know how to be a friend to these people
because I never learned how to be a friend to myself.
I never learned how to take a compliment
or how to look in the mirror and say
"hey, I actually look nice today."
But my mind taught me many things,
like how to lose 15 pounds in 25 days
and giving up food just so I could weigh
90 pounds and be classified as below average
because hey, I always knew I was different.

But it didn't stop there.

High school came and I worried that I was gay
since I never felt anything when guys looked my way.
And still, to this day, I find myself chuckling
whenever I see a girl bat an eyelash
to a boy across the room
or the perfect couple caressing each other
right outside my third period class.

But I'd be lying if I said that I didn't like boys.
And the truth is that I long for love
but love to me has never been something
you get from making out in the hallways
or two people texting each other
every minute of the day
and thinking "man, this is as good as it gets."

I hadn't realized that before.
And that's why it scared me the first time I kissed a boy
and the second time and even the fiftieth time
without ever feeling anything at all.
I thought maybe I wasn't doing it right,
maybe there was some trick that I didn't know about,
or once again, maybe I just wasn't into boys.

But no.

The truth was that the fault was mine,
just like it always was,
because I decided that love for me
will never be a pretty face
or a kiss in the rain.

Love for me is a tentative smile
with cracked lips and the
faint smell of bile.
It is scars and dusty books and
long periods of silence.
It is two shattered souls with
beaten down hearts that
no longer pulse right.
But beating together as one,
they almost sound...
normal.

And maybe, on the outside,
everything will appear normal.
But I know the truth, and the truth is this:

*I have always been different, and I always will be.

Too long has it been since
ink has flowed from my veins,
seeped out of my pores,
and bled from my heart.
Too long has it been since
pencils have hastily scribbled
down words on the lines of
my numerous notebooks
and fingers have raced across
key after key;
the cacophony of clacks
is like music in my ears
as I listen to each stroke
of a new letter,
a new word,
a new experience.

I want to write about you.

The way you can talk
for hours on end
about your passions
and your fears
and all else in between.
I want to write about
the way your eyebrows raise
in the middle of a sentence
and I don't even think
you realize it.
Or the way your hands move
as you gesture around you
for emphasis and intensity
and you look like you could
be standing on stage
presenting a speech for
millions of people.
But oh god,
I wish I could tell you how
******* cute you look
when you speak.

I don't know what you see
when you look into my
murky brown eyes
but I can tell you that
I could stare at your face
forever without feeling bored
because you are the pearl
trapped inside of an oyster.
You're the luminous moon
and the burning sun
and the stars and the
diamonds and the
treasures you find
under your mattress.

I want to write about
your smile and your laugh
and your bony kneecaps,
and I know I'm only sixteen
but is it really that
ludicrous of me to say
that I want love?
I want to love your
complicatedness,
your deep thoughts
and your V-neck shirts.
I want to love the way
you look at me as if
I'm more than just a
scared little girl
and the way you
laugh at me sometimes
for no justifiable reason
but it's okay because
I'd do something
ridiculous everyday
just to see you look
so happy.

I want to love you.

But how can you leave so easily?
I know that it causes you
no pain to just walk away
when all I ever want
is for you to stay;
to forget about sleeping and
everything else in the world
except you and me.
But I know that good things
come in small doses
so I'll pick up the notebook
beside my bed,
and I'll write about you
instead.

I will start with a hello.*

A handshake, an introduction, a beginning.
Then it will grow,
from an exchange of names
to playing mind games and discussing our fames.

You've always been the talker,
the initiator, the instigator.
And I; the listener, the adviser and friend
to give you a silent **** in the right direction
when the sidewalk comes to an end.

I take no form; no shape, no size.
I'm not the truth, nor the lies.
I am not a human, or a living creature.
I have no body parts, or any features.

But I can think, sure I can.
And I can act as any other man.
The reason why I still exist
is not meant to be a mystery
buried deep inside your inner abyss.

In fact, it lingers right in front of you
and dances before your eyes.
It isn't meant to be shocking news;
or an unforeseen surprise.

Even if you can't see me,
I'm always here as company;
the guest that never leaves.

And even if I wanted
to pick up my shoes,
get up and move,
my nonexistent feet
would stop me in my tracks
and I'd be heading back to your street
fast, fast, fast.

I'd be back before the count of two;
and if you wonder why,
let me ask this question of you:
why is it that we've never parted,
or even said goodbye?

Here is my answer to you:
We are bonded together by super glue,
joined by the brain, the heart and soul, too.
If that sounds confusing, I'll give you another clue;
you live in me, just like I live in you.

I am poetry;
metaphors and similes,
dotted i's and crossed t's.
So fill my cup with the wine of your words,
swallow me whole and be free as the birds
flying through the endless sky
as clouds and airplanes pass you by.

Stanzas and rhymes will flow down your throat
like that of a current, which carries a boat
and takes it to its destination;
the end goal, the aspiration.

They'll travel down with ballads marked in cursive,
with scribbled sonnets and haikus and verses.
Then when they finally reach the heart,
you'll know that it's no longer just words but art.
Because your poems are colours that brighten the walls
by splashing blank canvases and bathroom stalls.

I am poetry;
the pencil and the paper.
But you are the hand, the thinker, the maker.
So paint the world a picture
through your beautiful literature
because your words are your wand
so show us the magic and create the bond
between the fixed and the broken,
the sleeping and the woken,
the written and the spoken.

Pick me up and let me scrawl
down your words and then install
them into the minds of everyone
and they'll be stunned by the
brightness of your sun.

You'll shine with radiance and glory
so keep on telling your story
because your words are your life,
your victories and your strife.

You are the creator, the teacher, the reverend;
but this time, I will subside
because *you are the guide,
*and your words are your legend.

11:22pm

Right now, as I sit here listening to Neil Young and allow myself to ponder over every little thing about my life, I have realized something that I should have became aware of a long time ago:

-I am not defined by my sadness-

Nor am I defined by the amount of times I've been dumped, or failed a test, or made some stupid mistake. I am not defined by my past, and I surely can't be defined by my questionable future. Why does it matter if I'm depressed, or if I **** at math, or if I don't have very many friends? These are all just tiny little fractions of the millions and millions of pieces that make up who I am as a person. And, to be quite honest; just because I'm sad, that doesn't mean that I have to be sad. I am completely capable of being happy if I want to be. I can do anything I want if I truly set my mind and heart to it. But the moment I let my sadness define who I am as a person, that will be the very moment when I lose all hopes for any positive change in my life.

Just because I'm sad, that doesn't mean I can't appreciate really good songs, or really good meals, or really good jokes. Just because I'm sad, that doesn't mean I can't laugh and have a good time with my friends, or discover all the beautiful things that life has to offer. Just because I'm sad, that doesn't mean I can't be happy, right? Because when you think about it, our minds are composed of emotion after emotion; ranging from complete sadness to hopelessness to anger to confusion to giddiness to absolute joy. So no, I am not defined by my sadness. But I'm not defined by my happiness, either.

I have strengths, and I have weaknesses. I make amazing progress only to watch it crumple in a single moment. I can go weeks -months even- without picking up the razor and drawing it across my skin. But the second I start getting those feelings again -those urges to distract myself from the emotional pain of a bad day by inflicting physical pain upon myself- that razor will be in my hand and before I know it, the familiar red drops will be trickling down my arms.

So yes, it's been hard. Life is hard. But if it was easy -if I didn't have to work my **** off to achieve the things I want- then would it be worth it? No. See, that's the thing about progress. When we want something, we get up and we fight for it. It might be difficult as hell but it's worth it because we know deep down that it's something we have to do for ourselves. Even if we make mistakes along the way, we learn from them and keep going until we can finally pat ourselves on the back and say I did it! And that right there, is the best part. The part where we can feel pride on the fact that maybe, just maybe, we are more capable than we thought we were.

It is now 12:06am and I would like to say one more thing:

I am 16 years old. I am still a child. I am immature, inexperienced, and still so uneducated. I have so much to learn, so much to experience, so much to live for. However, I have lived long enough to know that life is beautiful yet ugly, challenging yet worth it, infinite yet extremely finite. In that sense, I am terribly old. I am a teenager; a young adult. With 16 years under my belt, I should be able to say that I have been living life to the fullest. But I would be lying to myself if I did. I am so old, but mostly, old enough to know that I have done wrong. Old enough to know that I shouldn't have been letting my sadness define me.

And I am still so young...

But mostly, too young to not have hopes for a better future.
Too young to not have realized yet that *everything will be okay.

It seems that every time
I'm with you,
I feel inspired.
And of course,
with inspiration
comes the utmost desire
to do the one thing
I love greatest;
and that,
is to write.

But how do I write,
when words can't even
begin to describe
the way you play the piano?
Your gentle fingers
stroke each key with such
delicateness
and I want to cry because
your hands could never
cause harm the way
mine do.

How do I write,
when not even the
world's greatest camera
could capture the beauty of
the nighttime sky and
all the other outside wonders
that look so much more
radiant when I'm walking
right next to you?

A poem cannot justify
the fact that I used to
stay indoors when it
poured down rain
because I was scared
of getting wet.
But with you,
I'd walk through
a hailstorm
and that would be
completely fine
with me.

To be honest,
it should scare me
that a girl who
loves words could
be so speechless.
But I am fearless
because being with you
has taught me that
sometimes
I don't need to think
and I don't need to see.
I don't need anything
but my heart,
for every pulsing beat
will tell me what to do.

And now,
as I frantically search
for something to say;
an incredible form
of literature
that would take your
breath away,
I realize that
I don't need to.

Because
how do I write,
when not even
the smartest human
on earth
could explain how
when I'm with you,
my demons turn into
angels?

I need not say more
because sometimes
words just aren't
enough.
So hopefully one day
I can close my mouth,
open my heart,
and show you that
I do indeed
care about you,
too.

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.

Dear Poet,

I do not know you; yet I know exactly who you are.
I do not know your name; I know the verbs and the adjectives and the metaphors that can sprout in your mind like a flower ready to bloom at two o'clock in the morning. You're afraid, I know. You're afraid to open up to another person because you've been let down time and time again. You find it hard to trust people. No one knows how you feel except for that precious notepad and your favourite pen. Replace the paintbrush with a pencil and the canvas with some paper, and darling, you are an artist. Your world is coloured through the scribbled words in the margins of your study sheets, and the inspiration you get when you discover something amazing. The inspiration to write. To write about what's good in this world, to write about what's bad, about what makes you happy and what makes you sad.
You are not defined by your name. You are not defined by what others think about you. You are not defined by the way you see yourself in the mirror, or the way you interact with others. Instead, you are defined by your favourite colours. You are defined by the beautiful moments you have learned to capture in a single photograph. You are defined by the stories you tell about that day when you were 10 years old. You are defined by the songs you listen to when you're home alone. The movies that you watch; especially the ones that can make you break down in tears no matter how many times you've seen it. But most importantly, you are defined by the words you write. The string of thoughts that you could never say out loud. The words you should have said to that certain person can be told through your poems, and the words that you shouldn't have said can be scrubbed out with an eraser in the fraction of a second. See, this is why you matter.
You matter because you are a poet. You are not just an ordinary person; you have a passion like no other. You see things that the world does not; like the beauty of a sunset or the meaning behind a song or the sadness hidden through a smile. You over-analyse everything, but that's okay because you are a poet. You can find a reason to write just because of something someone said to you, or a good day, or a bad day. In fact, you cherish the bad days because those are the times when your writing shines like the sun coming up after a long day of rain.
You are so beautiful, and everyone can see it but you. You look in the mirror and count each and every flaw you see. You wish you could be prettier, you wish you could be happier, you wish you could be like the popular kids at your school. You wish you could play sports instead of hiding out in your room all day writing a bunch of crap. But it's not crap... It is the most pure and absolutely extraordinary thing in this world. Why? Because you are a poet. Your words are who you are. Don't you dare become popular; don't you dare change who you are. You are a poet. You are unique. You are so, so beautiful.
Hands stained with ink, pencil behind your ear, notebook hidden in your back pocket. No make-up, hair pulled up, wearing your comfiest hoody. You don't have brand name clothing, or an expensive car. You don't go out partying, or eat at fancy restaurants. Why? Because you are a poet. You drink tea, not wine. You wear sweatpants, not dresses. Converse, not stilletos. You are not a model. You are not an actress. You are not like the others.
You are not outgoing. In fact, you are extremely quiet and shy. But you are kind, so so kind. You care about others, not yourself. You are the listener, not the talker. You are the nurturer. You are the lover of books, of literature, of English. You are a poet.
I do not know you. But I hope to meet you one day, I hope to share my poems with you and cry over sappy love stories and get drunk off tea with you. Why? Because you are a poet. And so am I.

Sincerely yours,
Another Poet

Tell me again, my darling
when did our lives become so messed up?
I cannot breathe, I cannot sleep
I am nothing
without you here beside me

Tell me again, my darling
why did you decide to get up and leave?
I understand our future was weary
but we were still so young
we had our whole lives ahead of us

Tell me again, my darling
why wasn't I good enough for you?
I told you all my darkest secrets
my thoughts, my fears
the monsters in my mind

Tell me again, my darling
did my sickness make you run and hide?
You saw the scars, you felt my pain
my self-hatred; it took over my life
it even made me start to hate you

Tell me again, my darling
will everything turn out in the end?
'Cause I don't know how much longer I can wait
for these wounds to heal...
I need an escape

From this purgatory.

Here's to the l o n e r s
who'd give anything for someone to sit with
or a kind smile in the hallways

Here's to the n e r d s
drowning themselves in homework to escape from reality
and hating every moment of it

Here's to the w e i r d o s
wishing they could just be understood
or acknowleged as a normal human

Here's to the d r u g g i e s
smoking to have a good time without a care in the world
when in fact, they do care

Here's to the s l u t s
all they ever wanted was to be noticed
all they ever wanted was to feel pretty

Here's to the p o p u l a r kids
with fake smiles, fake friends, fake bodies
yet nowhere near happy

Here's to the f a t kids
eating to fill that emptiness inside of them
yet they are never satisfied

Here's to the s k i n n y girls
hiding under baggy clothing to disguise their so called "fatness"
starving themselves just because they can

Here's to the j o c k s
                 the g o t h s
                 the p r e p s
                 the r i c h
                 the p o o r

Here's to the people who have been labelled since day one

Well, I've got a different label for you...

It's called
H U M A N

There was a certain beauty
that could be seen within her ugliness.

There was a certain clarity
finding its way through all her confusion.

There was a certain sanity
scarcely heard among the screaming of her madness.

There was a certain alertness
waking up from her exhaustion.

There was a certain light
shining through her darkness.

There was a certain meaning
edging its way out of her emptiness.

There was a certain absolution
found amidst all her regret.

There was a certain realization
that she would find her way.

Just a certain certainty
that she would be okay...

She was just a girl; like all the others
But on the inside, there was something about her that no one else could see
She hid it so well, her face a perfect mask of happiness
And none of her friends cared enough to question her false laugh

You see, this girl was slowly dying
Perhaps not physically; she had no known disease
But there was something, something in the way she broke down at night when she was alone
And how she clutched at her chest as though there was some kind of invisible hole...
A hole that threatened to open up and tear her apart
Leaving her with nothing...
Nothing.

There was just something in the way her eyes looked
How if you glanced real close, you could see the sheer terror in them;
Just on the surface
Bubbling over until a single teardrop fell down her translucent face
Then another, and another.
Until these salty drops of water drown her in such a sorrowful way
Such a sorrowful yet beautiful way...

You see, this is what she becomes at night.
A girl, not unlike all the others...
Just another sad and beautiful soul
Falling apart.

You've got scars on your wrists
Blood on your fists
You try to cover the hole
In your soul
By filling it with alcohol
Your smile has faded
As your heart becomes degraded
Darkness has followed you
Starvation has hollowed you
Life has become pointless
Faces are emotionless
No one cares enough to try
To help you when you cry
You're so full of grief
Death has become a relief
You welcome it
And it welcomes you.

You are finally free...
*Where is the humanity?

I close my eyes and imagine...

I imagine a place with no hatred
A place with no discrimination
Where there is only equality, a beauty so sacred
But here there isn't even a kind face
Yet, I can't help but try...
To imagine a better place

Behind this barbed wire fence, you will see
A sickening sight, an attrocity
For we are prisoners, the Jews and me
Prisoners that likely will never be free

These concentration camps are my home
My own personal, living hell where I roam
A life not worth living
When you feel so alone

Yes, I am a Jewish man
Does that make me a lesser person than you?
I refuse to give up my beliefs, my religion, and my whole self
To be a part of their clan
So does that make me untrue?

Well, before you judge us
Know that Jews are no different than you
We were judged for the death of Christ, oh yes
And for starting the Black Plague, too

In 1215, we were forced to wear the Star of David
A sign for everyone to see
It identified us as the Jews they all hated
They called us traitors, ****, untrustworthy
We weren't allowed to live with Christians
So they took us to the ghettos
And all the while being tortured by Germans
Of course, many problems arose

It was horrible, crowded and damp
But then one day,
I was sent to a **** camp

They took all my clothing and shaved my head
I was separated from my family, then put to work
And trust me when I say, I would rather have been dead
As they laughed at me and smirked

So there I was, a helpless Jew
Alone in a crowded space
Wishing and praying that my dream would come true
So I'd end up in a better place

As the days went by
I grew tired and weak
With no food or water, my mouth was so dry
No words could come out, not even a shriek

Then, one morning
On a bright summer day
A young man came with a warning
He said, '******'s on his way'
So I looked to the distance, and sure enough
He was walking right towards us
Then stopped, in a huff
And said 'Come with me, don't put up a fuss'

Silently, we dropped our tools and followed
There were thousands of us, I could tell
Each one a skeleton, faces hollowed
And when I looked ahead, my face fell

For we were heading to a building
And as we stepped inside, I knew
I could feel my own heart beating
This is what I get for being a Jew

As I stood there, now naked
The room suddenly went black
Then I just waited
There was no turning back

With just moments to spare
I slowly shut my eyes
Then said one last prayer
While I listened to everyone's cries

This was it. I was done. I had finished the race
And with just one second to go
I dreamt of a better place