i wrote a poem. it wasnt about the leaves falling or growing back. it was about a boy that was too sad to
even look at himself in the mirror. sometimes he believed that if he looked in the mirror for too long he wasnt who he was supposed to be, sometimes if he looked in the mirror too long he became a monster and thats particularly the reason why he avoided the mirror at night because thats when monsters become real and he was tired of thinking of himself as a monster.
i wrote a poem but it wasnt about summertime or the way the sand feels between your toes or the cold rush of ocean water on a hot day. it was about the salty tears that he would cry because demons were haunting his room at night. and not the demons like ghosts but the demons from within. the kind of demons that you cant run away from.
i wrote a poem it wasnt about a bride blushing when the groom snuck a kiss when the priest wasn't looking it was about the funeral we gave you. it was about the hundreds of people who stood in line just to see your face one last time before youre put in the ground. it was about me staring at your chest from afar hoping that it would move that maybe this was one of your famous jokes and maybe your lungs would start working again along with your heart and your organs and your brain and maybe your eyes would open. perhaps itll scare someone whos standing right next to you but who cares bc youre alive. but you didnt. and now now youre in the ground.
i wrote a poem and it wasnt about me it was about finding the demons. i found the demons inside of you when you were put into the ground. i found the demons because as they lowered your casket into the 6 foot hole they dug for you i saw one slip out before they closed it. the demon was dancing on your casket and as they lowered you to the ground, i jumped. i didnt jump up i didnt jump back. i jumped in and i started hitting that demon as hard as i could because now that youre gone the demon had no place else to go. the demon knew he had won but even the best fall down sometimes and i made sure he fell as hard and as far as he could.
i wrote a poem but i couldnt save you from yourself. if i could have shrunken down and fought that demon before you left me i would have. but i couldnt. i had all these words left to say to you but they started in my chest and never made it to my throat and now im sitting here with all the words that couldnt have saved you anyway because the demons were trapped inside of you. the only way for you to be happy again is to cut yourself open & rip them out yourself, so you did. the demons were trapped & stuck inside you, and i know because i have demons stuck inside of me too. but sometimes i get so mad because if im still here then why arent you? if im still here fighting myself trying not to rip out my own demons, then why couldnt you have done the same? i needed you.
i wrote a poem. and it was about my demons being stuck inside of me and theyre crawling and theyre running around and sometimes they run to a dead end and they hit my fingertips and they bounce  back and run straight into my heart. they run through my veins, through my arteries. sometimes they break my ribs in the process but they heal so quickly that the doctors dont believe me and call me crazy but i promise them that theres a demon inside of me and hes breaking my ribs and hes breaking my soul and hes breaking my heart but i can still feel the demons running inside me. and i dont know how or why or when but i just want them to go away i dont know how im going to do that but i said some day i would. and i think thats the reason i cut myself open, to try and find a way to show the demons a way out but they run through my blood stream and i can feel them in my fingertips and i can feel them
in my forearms and i can feel them in my elbows and i can feel them in my shoulders and in my neck and i can feel them going down my throat. and i can feel it in my chest and i can feel it in my liver and i can feel it in my stomach and i can feel it in my pelvis. and i can feel it in my knees and i can feel it in my shins and i can feel it in my ankles and i can feel it all the way down to my toes and suddenly its like an electric current and it flows all the way back up to my head and shock the hair in its roots. it feels like i cant say anything fast enough or correctly.
i wrote a poem & it was about sometimes i believe that why i write & not speak is because i cant say the right words and maybe if i state at a blank piece of paper long enough the right words will come out but i know, i know they wont bc the demons are still stuck inside of me and i think thats why you wrote so beautifully that night and didnt ask for help. the demons knew that they were finally coming out and sometimes when the demons come out its the best time to say things.
i wrote a poem and it was about wanting peace. i just dont have peace but rather i have pieces of myself.
i will never have peace until my demons are gone. but im trying to find a way to get the demons to leave me alone without dying im not sure if i know the right way but im sure as hell trying. but the drugs dont work and the alcohol doesnt work and the cigarettes dont work and the blood doesnt work and the pills dont work. but i have to find a way to stop them before they eat me up inside and they tear me apart. in order to stop them ill have to tear myself apart and thats why i break things and thats why
i throw things because i have to find something to destroy other than myself and sometimes i pull my hair because i cant understand whats happening to me.
i wrote a poem and i started to see red for a bit but i stopped seeing red because the curtains are red and the walls are yellow. the candle on top of the cabinent is red brown and yellow and the book on the couch is  yellow and red the couch is yellow red tan green blue. the table is brown and the floor is brown but the carpet and the drapes are red.
i wrote a poem. maybe i should stop talking about them before they come back its like a taboo its like the  field of dreams and the saying"if you build it they will come" and i promise you that if i built a bridge from my heart to my brain the demons would make their way back & i would be consumed by them and im not sure if i can deal with that so ill cut the bridge in half before they start walking towards my brain.
i wrote a poem. and it was about me snapping that bridge in half and watching the demons fall down my throat and into the acid in my stomach, but that doesnt make any difference because once one does another one is born. so as long as the demons keep walking they will die with my secrets but the new ones will find  a new way to torture me, and maybe thats worse because if they need new ways to torture me then every thing will torture me. perhaps thats what happened to you.
i wrote a poem but im not sure what its about anymore. but i do know that its not good and im tired of speaking.

Two men struggle
For one womans heart
One has her physically
The other has her emotionally
And mentally
The one who has her physically
Wants nothing more
Than to love her
And for her to love him
In return
Though he doesnt understand
She has been hurt
Time and time again
He doesnt understand
Her withdrawals
Her fears
Her thoughts
Though he tries
Only to hit a dead end
Everytime
For she wont talk
The other man
However
Showing her a world
The one she always dreamed of
Stays next to her
Shielding her
Protecting her
Loving her
Listening to her heart
Crying when she feels pain
Anger when she feels agony
Her stronghold
When she doesnt have anything
To stay strong for
The other man sees this
In her eyes
So he tries to enforce his ways
Upon her
Trying to make her think
Her angel
Doesnt care for her
Like he does
However
She doesnt believe him
She refuses too
They argue everyday
About the other man
She defends her position
But the toll on her heart
Is much more
What is she hanging on too?
The piece of her heart
Where she feels safe
A memory of a smile
That melts ice
The arms that held her safe
Even if it was for a short time
Is it really so wrong to long for it?
For an end?
Of this continous
War of the heart.

stop talking about god.
you told me you dont believe,* he said.
whats the point of mourning something that was never there?
[its not that i don’t believe,] i said or apologized.
[it’s more that i can’t.]
i wanted to believe in a god that would sell my bones to an artist
to make something more beautiful.i volunteered myself
to every altar i could find,
laid at the feet of the sky till i learned that i am a ******* holocaust.
im a burnt offering  no god would claim.
im covering up my body and pretending it doesnt exist.
strangers grab my waist and i want to be sick.i want to spit acid
like a snake.my friends say im too kind for my own good.
i knew what he wanted but i talked to him anyway
cause he said please.
i always expect to be saved.
suffering doesnt feel real.
i know how you think of me but i talk to you anyway, and
i know who loves me and who
doesnt care,
but id like to know that someone hates me the way i do,
(maybe we could bond over
mutual enemies.)
last night i was sick. last night i puked in my father's garden.
you say you can tell when my smiles are fake so then
why do you just laugh along?
it is two am,
i am at a park by my home,
im waiting for a text from you but it doesnt come
i am a geode.split me open. all you'll find inside is salt.
im sleeping on hardwood floors because the word 'bed'
is still a synonym for 'crime scene,'
'earthquake zone,'
'tsunami warning'.
the world shook last week and i ran to the coast
watching for tidal waves.
i needed god.i screamed to the sky.i committed all the sins i could, but,
stubbornly,
god continued to not exist.
i needed god but god did not need me.i am using past tense to forget that today,
i stole a rosary and nailed it to my wall.
my voice cracks when i shout that i,
i am strong,
i am invulnerable.
there are fences i do not want to scale and doors i do not want to open.
did you break me?did you unmake me?
or did you just taxidermy me,
freeze me in that time,
and all i am now is the organs you threw out,
the heart and guts you didnt need.
i have not suffered; i do not suffer,
i am nerveless and numb.i am a scarecrow,
i do not care when you pick out my button eyes.
you're a papercut and i test knives for a living.
a bruise on the knuckles of a girl who keeps
punching the walls.
a splinter in my palm and i just broke my jaw.
you were just the starting gun and ive been running alone,
slow like through sand,
like a nightmare.
i dont dream anymore, i just
replay jumbled memories, i cant tell
if im asleep or awake.
im at a funeral and im
sketching your face on the back of a napkin;
a ****** composite.
all my family has to say is she'll be a heartbreaker, that one.
they're gonna be crying over her.
my mother tells me its a compliment.
its three a.m. and she asks me why im awake and i
mumble something into the blankets about impossibility.
we're interpreting the bible and he's on the other side of the room,
he's staring at his desk or his hands or nothing at all.
i'm on the roof of some building and im writing a poem and
every time i talk about you you're someone new.  
there was an earthquake while i slept but i pretended it was my heart, i
didnt clean up the broken glass
on the floor.  
i compare myself to natural disasters to absolve myself when really
im a pyromaniac in my own burning home,
i keep digging graves in my backyard and ive finally fallen in.
it’s a matter of fate, an act of god, i wont fix myself but
at least i have an excuse.
its like there are nettles in my arms caressing the nerves.
its like all the false confidence in the world cant change the way
every muscle in my body is clenched so hard
they’ve compressed to stone.
its like i am medusa and ive been alone with only mirrors
for far too long.
ive given up on being eloquent.
ive given up on making sense,
i am not articulate or intelligent or sensible and i was never meant to be an actress.
this poem is an emetic
and the bezoar you left in me will not remain.

twelve

         If i could write a letter to my twelve your old self, i would mention the pain your about to face, with self loathing and mental health is far worse then the years before. I would mention how when you wake up wipe the sleep from your eyes and read this letter and find two people you loved gone from your life forever. When you leave your plastic car framed bed you will find an empty room in the basement. The first loss is not death but abandenment leaves no answer to the sting a heart can feel when your older sister meant to guide you has ran away.  She has left, and to what you shall soon find out, left you to your death. The second loss has less thought to the idea of why? but still i did cry. It was my great grandmothers time. Her slow pace death lead to suffering till one week to the day after i turned twelve.  Emotional asking questions why, three days later i tightened my silk tie putting on a suit and ending the night seeing the casket of one of you. To think of you as dead eased my head for a while but still have to replace my frown with a fake smile. After all i lost a sister, when i needed someone to talk you were never there. Instead i just found myself cutting and dyeing my hair.  This is the year you feel your fathers strong hand as you tremble below it. This is the year you tremble in fear this is the first year you want to die

Thirteen

      To my thirteen year old self, im sorry life doesnt get better. im sorry that this is year your parents admit they don't care.  Im sorry this is the year you hear the three words no one wants or deserves to know their pain. Even though the words "I hate you" Were uttered in vain. Im sorry no one was there to hold you in there arms, im sorry of how when looked in the mirror every morniing after you showered  telling yourself its a new day and the pain is past. Im so sorry of how you found out how long the pain really lasts. Look at what you have achieved though, this is the year you win first in all categories invited to Kick Canada to again win. You achieve a bronze as a group, silver in your weopons, and gold in kickboxing. With you feeling weighed down your still weightless, with your amazing place and the smile on your face to look in the croud hearing the aplause. Somethings missing though your parents no where to be seen. Im sorry they wernt there to say good job im sorry your dads hand still strikes strong. This is the year you say enough though, you say no and strike back your foe. He stands stunned for a minute and walks away, the bruises faded away from the surface, but inside i still see them.  It is the night of my birthday i fall asleep praying tomorow will bring a better year.

Fourteen

     Im sorry this is not the year it gets better, your father never lays another hand to your dismay doesnt matter for his and your mothers word fly freely. This is the year they make you cry, only to insult you further "your nothing, your trash" there tounges did lash me. Til  i crashed under hate to my untimly fate, your mother is sick and you walk into the room as she slashes the blade across her wrist, you watch her bleed amd scream for help but she pretends u dont exsist she  spends the next year and eight monthes in psycitric care. Left in a house with nothing fair in the air my invitation ti nationals came and past i did not go in fear of leaving my mother would effect her more vast, past her yelling at ke eberyday i walked in the light blue room with the curtains always closed filled with gloom . While my mother on her last heartstrings looked for strength from her groom . Only to be filled with hate she saw me as a reminder he exsists and how he doesnt visit but i did. I walked the long path every **** day to see my mothers face still i wasnt good enough but that is just my luck. It is my last night of this age. The house is empty amd quite but still remains okay just praying thiis new year brings joy to the now broken boy.

Fifteen

     This is not the year it gets better neither, but this os the year your mother is released. It took a week for the smiles to wear away. Then i saw once again the skin tare from her flesh. Soon hate took over the tone under her breath and malace mixed with spite is the only thing left of my mother i once knew. This is the year you once again face death, you and your mother are in a car driving counting breaths singing along to eminem, reciting robert frost. when suddenly a car passes us and my mother is crossed the mid age lady on her phone swirving around, not paying atention to anyone or anything i still see her frown. She ran a stop sighn without a thought hit by a garbage truck in front of our eyes now i know the cost of when her cellphone conversation stopped. This was the first time i watched someone die. Still shocked  my mother had to call the abulence as i and the garbage man saw the damage in case she still did breath. In the end blood filled the scene as me amd the garbage man covered the front window with a sheet to protect what is left of this womens dignity. This is the year you fond a little blue pill that not only eases your pain if snorted aslo goves you a thrill. This is the first year that you almost sucsessfully kil.l... yourself going to sleep for this living hell praying next year could be better aswell.

Sixteen

     This year is a self medicated blur, this is the year you forgot who you were. T3s replaced with perks and shots only to be soon replaced with oxys in your black box crushed and lined one at a time up your nose the powder glides. The first night you try an 80 you overdose nearly comitoce as you spew a frothy white  fluid from your mouth but my freinds saved me to this day i dnt know how called said i passed out and cant drive home so my parents could never figure out how i lay on the tiled floor back from death after this a pill is never again accepted that is your debt 2 days to your birthday that cursid day your sober but that was just babby steps and i promise little soilder babby steps you would not regret.

Seventeen

      This is the year you stopped praying for help thinking you did this to yourself i promise it wasnt you. How could it be your still just in youth. This is the year you watch your father fall. You find the trail of debt 100 thousand dollars owed mine aswell of been a million for we can barely live so how would you like us to pay it back i finfd him stealing money from my backpack. This is the year you find out your dad is the same worth of a rat and you dont have to take his crap. This is the year he snaps and instead you help him back up. He was in achoma five days as you stayed never slept jus sat beside his hospital bed praying this did not mean death. Death came in a different way with your cousin brit stabbed to death by her husband on febuary fith.. this is the year you wished you diddnt exsist.

Eighteen

     This is the year.... you found the courage to see you will always be...good and thats enough for me.

And Helens mother says as Helen climbs down the stairs of the building mind the road and dont talk to people you dont know and make sure you get the right change from Baldys you know what hes like Helen holds the stair rail and takes one step at a time as they are quite steep and she doesnt want to fall down in her small palm she holds the coins for the shopping and they are becoming damp as she holds them so tight and in her other hand she holds a bag to put the shopping in and thinking over in her mind how much change she ought to have if her sums are right and she thinks she has got it right although Baldy will get it right no doubt but she must try and get it right or her  mum will tell her off she reaches the lowest stair and stands there looking back up the stairs and waits to hear if her mother has stopped talking and its all quiet and so she moves out into the street and the sky looks grey and rainy looking and that man is on the corner in his black coat buttoned up to his neck and the black trilby hat and he looks at her as she passes and she looks away her mother had said dont talk to people you dont know and she doesnt know him but her dad said the mans a bookies runner although shes not seen him run anywhere as yet although he may run when shes not looking and she wonders as she passes him what a bookies runner is and why he stares at her so he doesn't look friendly in fact he looks like a criminal as far as she knows what a criminal looks like the man turns away and gazes up Rockingham Street and she walks quickly to Baldys shop and climbs over the steep step that leads into the shop and it is quite full and so she waits her turn behind Mrs Knight who is a tall thin lady from upstairs who has cats and she smells of cats and when she looks out of her door when at home she looks like a cat too Helen sniffs yes cat smell she thinks and looks at Mrs knights coat and sees cats hairs and she holds a purse in her thin hand and a shopping bag in the other Helen being only eight years old cant see beyond Mrs Knight but at the side she can see other people at the counter and Baldy is busy and his assistant is rushing about quite madly Helen thinks she ought to have gone to the loo before she came out shopping because now she feels like she needs to *** but she doesnt want to go back home again so she tries to think of something else to take her mind off of the *** wanting feeling then someone taps on her shoulder and as she turns she sees its Benny the boy from school who lives up the road and whom she likes and who doesnt call her four-eyes or take the mickey out of her hello Helen says looking at Benny what you doing here? shopping for Mum he says holding up a brown shopping bag got a list or ill forget I always forget he says he moves close to her and shows her the coins wrapped in a paper list in the palm of his hand you shopping too? he asks yes she says looking shy and gazing at him got to get some things I can remember what Mum says and what change I have to get afterwards he studies her as she stands there her hair in plaits with a center parting and the wire framed glasses which make her eyes look large and cow like and the faded red flower dress and green cardigan with two buttons missing what you doing after? he asks dont know she replies why where are you going? going to the herbalist he says get some liquorice sticks and a glass of sarsaparilla could I come too? she says if Mum lets me and Ive done all that she wants? sure you can he says meet me by the Duke of Wellington if you can go about ten or so if youre not there by ten past ten Ill go without you he says she nods her head and hopes she can go and looks at him standing there his brown hair and hazel eyes and a cowboy hat at the back of his head and the six shooter in the belt of his blue jeans and she feels happy for the first time since shed got up and she says can Battered Betty go too? sure he says and she smiles and senses her heart go quickly in her chest thump thump thump thump yes Helen what can I do for you? Baldy asks her as she is next in line to be served so she recites what her mother had told her so much sugar in a blue package and a certain amount of cheese and a pound of broken biscuits and a loaf of bread and o yes a dozen eggs she says offering him an empty egg box and he goes off to fulfil the recited list and Benny is served by the assistant and he hands the man the list and the man reads it and goes off to put together the items on Benny list and suddenly Helen feels the need to *** again and hopes Baldy wont be long getting the stuff she asked for and o yes Benny says my old man says hes taking me to the pictures on Sunday did you want to come? he wont mind its a U film so kids can go too she pushes her knees together hoping Baldy will hurry up Ill ask Mum Helen says feeling the sweaty coins in her palm and having to pass the bookies runner and hope she wont do her any harm.

it should bother you
that ive been alone in my room
all afternoon
with my homework and have only done
five problems
it should bother you that
i delete my internet history
day after day after day
but its only because
i dont want anyone to see
that ive been reading the works
of liars and ****** and thieves
it should bother you
that you didnt know this about me
but it doesnt
my inner communism
or socialism
or fascism
or racism
or feminism
or radicalism
should probably be something of your concern
but its not
you dont care that i sit here
and drown in the words of dead poets
or revolutionaries
or just people
no you dont care
you stopped caring when i said
no its my life not yours
and slammed that door in your face
and you took one too many
of those sweet little pills
it should bother you
that youre dead and gone
but it doesnt, it doesnt, it doesnt
and it wont
though you still hang about me
you miserable ghost
just sit there in the air
above my head
and just dont care
no matter what i do
i cant make you go away
cant make you see what i see
cant make you come back to me

I belive in one God creator of heaven and earth

because thats my religion since my birth

it doesnt matter if you believe in ying and yang

or that the world was created with a big bang

it doesnt matter if you pray five times a day to the great merciful Allah

or if youre an athiest that doesnt believe in nada

because we are all branches of the same tree

you have a heart and sould just like me

so open your eyes

and see past the lies

youre looking at a tree when you should see the forest

look at us we are suppose to be one chorus

we should see our same roots not our split limbs

instead we start wars over the language of hymns

it doesnt matter if you read the 7 valleys, the 5 classics, the vedas, the quran, the torah, or the bible

because all we want is to be the worlds next idol

we are now just leaves blowing in the wind

of our own mortal sin

we should be reaching toward the light to let ourselves bloom

yet we would rather there be an atomic boom

so you see it doesnt matter what we belive because if we cant see past a religion

there will always be a division

Just because he says sweet things to you,
doesnt mean you should let your guard down,
always protect your heart.
'too bad i fall into cheesy words
and youre too good at it baby'.

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accept your personality
except when you dont meet the criteria

accept your body
except if it doesnt look like the photoshopped models

accept your clothing style
except if it doesnt fit into the listed categories

accept your weight
except if its not in the doctors average range chart

accept your loss
except if it starts to bring others down too

accept yourself
except if you dont then i will