Her eyes were red,
They showed her pain
It was obvious,
That she was crying again.

Her voice, just a whisper
Insignificant as dust
She's searching for someone
Someone to trust

She smiled and laughed
While her eyes remained empty
Strange that a smile
Can hide things so deadly

Her wrists show no scars
But her soul, tampered and broken
Their words were like weapons
Invisible when spoken

Her eyes were red,
They showed her pain
It was obvious,
That she was crying again...

Everything has gone mad
Everyone has what I had
Depression, agony, pain
Let's all board the misery train!
I was young I was lonely
I was imaginary
Alone
So alone
So sickeningly alone
I liked it better though
Than when they hurt me
No one would see
So I didn't tell
I knew they couldn't tell
No one would tell
I rather-ed hell
There was no justice  
None ever since
Yet I don't whine
You won't see those years of mine
Because I didn't show off sadness
I grew out of the madness
It's your turn
Hide your burns
If you say you want to die
Stop prolonging it, easy enough, say goodbye
But you won't, you want Attention
So you'll mention
Whatever it is
To be in the school's show biss
Don't tell me "I'm a liar  
I don't know what I'm saying
It's not as bad as someone else's pain!"
I don't feel bad
In fact it drives me mad
**** yourself or don't
But I won't
Let you
Drag me
Where
I've
*Already been

And I guess we've all just hit a new low.
Rock bottom ain't as deep as it goes.

there is so much I want to say
but I don't know how to say it

Every Poet has some story to tell.
every word that flows from their pens and onto paper is a piece of them they are willing to share
every Curve of a letter, every break between words tells you something you may have never known
every poet has some story to tell.

When the poem doesn't make sense
Grab some gloves and a mask and begin dissecting each stanza.
Each letter that hugs closely to each other break them apart
make sure to peer inside what's between them
Because every poet has a story to Tell  

A poet can tell you about  butterflies begin kissed by the sun but the sun, being selfish, doesn't leave a trace of saliva.
A poet can tell of love lost and about love ones tearing into their soul, shredding them like some paper shredder.  
A poet can tell of you anything they want with just whatever they have be it a napkin or computer
A poet can't help but to tell parts of their story even if the poem only makes sense to them
Every poet has a Story to tell.
That's just how they are.

What happened to us?
And please tell me why.
Since when was it okay to just let people cry,
While they smile on the outside,
And utter mere lies.
We're all so broken,
But yet, we're 'fine.'