In my head
Creativity runs undeterred
Fireworks of words explode
Entire universes collide
But this is all in my head.
Because to get
From the brain
to the hand
to the pen
to the paper
Some things are missed.
Because poetry is a game of telephone
And things are lost in translation.

I am struggling to get the words out
They are starting to feel empty, and forced

Poetry shouldn't be like that.

Poetry should be as natural as breathing
As flowing as air currents

It should pour out with power, with purpose
Unrefined, but beautiful
Not in spite of it, but because of it.

And that is getting difficult to do.

So I looked up the word hope in the dictionary today...

hope |hōp|
A feeling of expectation and desire for a certain thing to happen.

Then I decided to read the definition for expectation.

expectation |ˌekspekˈtā sh ən|
A strong belief that something will occur, or will be lived up to.

Then I decided to read the definition for lived.

lived |liv'd|
To have been alive at a specified point in the past.

Then I decided to read the definition for past.

past |past|
The time or a period of time before the moment of speaking or writing.

Then I decided to read the definition for moment.

moment |ˈmōmənt|
An exact point in time.

Then I decided to read the definition for exact.

exact |igˈzakt|
Not approximated in any way; precise.

Now, I don't know if my brain meant to do this or not,
But the first letter of every word I looked up spells *"Help me."

I'm taking a chance
I'm leaving my shell today

*But will it be worth it?

He was on the edge of the world, his world.
Pondering what awaited him...
A single lone tear rolled down his face
He trembled for a moment
Then quietly, he began to write.
In his neatest handwriting, because nobody could read it otherwise
When he was finished, he sealed up the envelope, put it on the table,
and looked in a mirror, at the thing he hated the very most staring back at him
he stared into his own eyes, seeing through them into his own bleeding, screaming soul
Into his cracked, shriveled, and blackened heart
And into his own lost self, that had cried out for help so many times
But when he had help, he lied and lied, but couldn't say why
He had made so many mistakes, he wanted to correct them.
But he was about to make the biggest mistake of them all.
He silently left the house he had called home for 13 years.
The boy decided to walk slowly; for it would be the last time he would do so.

He heard the whispers of the night
through the hearing aids he had been teased far too many times about,
And saw the stars twinkle in the sky
through the eyes that had watered up more times than he could count,
and he breathed the cool summer air
through the mouth that had released sobs, shaky breaths, and cries,
And more tear tracks replaced the first.
He finished his walk, and found a place nobody would find him at
He smiled, a twisted, cracked, and broken smile
And left this world forever.

Little did he know
That when his parents woke up
And saw the envelope on the table
They read it, and tears poured down their face
And his little innocent sister would ask her parents
"Mommy, Daddy, why are you crying?"
"Where's my brother?"
And her parents would try to answer her,
but only more cries would come out.
And everyone, even his bullies,
Would be shocked that one so happy
Could've done such a thing.
And then they would blame themselves.
His friends would become more and more depressed
Some of them taking their own lives too
What he thought would fix his mistakes
Would be the biggest mistake of them all.