They asked us to write a poem
in class
I thought about my B2 yellow pencil
and the way it used to
move easily

It was like if my words
would flow submerged in a labyrinth
and come up to breathe now and then
to show off in front of my face
that I would never place them in paper again

I knew I had to find another source of thoughts
and I asked
I was told that they'd seen my poem
hidden in dead end streets and alleys
where most of the best stories
go to die

they told me that Vincent Van Gogh
used the street as his canvas
and that Nicholas Copernicus found his passion
within the streets of a starry sky

I found my poem
with a case of severe amnesia
lost in an alley
snooping between the leftovers
of the things that he once saw me living

He said he got lost
a few months ago
when he started to feel unwelcomed
around me

I convinced him to go back home
and fed him
and asked him to return to my hands
or at least
to let me place him in paper

But he decided to leave
he grew arms and legs
and kicked down my door
and he was gone again

I knew there that everything that comes back
never does it not even as remotely
as how it was

and I'm here thinking
why did he leave again?

I think he found his color and shape
in the streets
far
too faraway
from me

I was yours from the beginning
but you were never mine
I guess I should've seen it
should've read all the signs
I was there for you always
but you never were for me
I guess I should've noticed
but I was too blind to see
It's true there were no promises
no touch, no hugs, no kisses
but you should've known that I would fall
still you didn't try to catch me at all

We need to stop having high expectations. Sad humans needs to stop having high expectations. Nobody is gonna look you in the eyes and know you're not fine. People can't read minds, tell them you're not fine. We can't blame them for when they leave because we're "too ****** up" in the head. We don't even want to be trapped in our own minds so you can't expect someone who's free to actually want to deal with that. And for the last time stop thinking someone is gonna kiss your scars. Scars aren't beautiful, they're tragic. And no, not "tragically beautiful." Normal people do not want to put their mouth on a mark you made to let all your anger out. I've been sad for too **** long.

Don't look at me
I'm not pretty
I won't blow your mind
Don't get to know me either
You'll just get disappointed

Please wait for just a short moment
While I find the right words to say
If you can't love me when I'm broken
Then maybe it's better this way

Please tell me I'm more than just beautiful
Because beauty makes me feel so wrong
A pretty face will only get me attention
And when I'm down I can only be so strong

I can't tell you I'm hurting so badly
I can't stop the pain that's inside
I can't let you down with my problems
I can't do anything but hide

Please don't force me to be happy
I can fake a smile if you need
But I'll hurt more than you'll ever know
And I'll suffer silently instead of plead

There are no right words for this song
There are no right words for my pain
I'm sorry I can't be what you wanted
I'm sorry I can't be happy again.

Please wait for just a short moment
While I find the right words to say
If you can't love me when I'm broken
Then 'love you' isn't what you should say

Honestly,
people have been telling me my whole life about **** I'm going to have to do.
Exercise, eat right, good grades,
hard work.
And you may call it weak or cowardly, (though, I do prefer the term loophole),  but I gave up a long time ago on doing any of it.

I gave up on life, and I've never felt more free.

How does one gain the experience they require
Without being given the chance to acquire such?
Why do we live in the shadows of our parents
As the opportunities they gave us, little or much
Give us the only experience we need to gain
Permission to earn the chance of real experience,
The type that actually matters to others?
For when I was caught in the ignorance of my innocence
No one told me to volunteer, do sports, oh no—
It was all grades, grades, grades, which I performed
But then as for this "experience", I’ve got nothing to show.
My parents thought they were loving me dearly,
Sheltering me from the outside world of salaries longer,
Not seeing that no one cares I wasn’t allowed to work
So young, but that my resume ought to be stronger.
I pursue to be sweet, polite, studious, hard working,
As I try to be sensible and ambitious in all I do
But in this paper competition, it is not conveyed
For I have no dates or references to give as clues.

Don’t you find it odd, my dear,
what teens have come to fear?
They fear themselves, their own ways,
anxious at the thought of school every day.
So much pressure just to be
something the world wants to see.
Defined by the numbers on a scale
and acceptance letters in the mail.
Be as pristine as what is seen
on the glorified movie screen.
They focus less on self appreciation;
instead count calories and accept starvation
Talents are useless and don’t matter,
unless they help you climb the social ladder.
Quantity over quality when it comes to friends,
popularity defines you in the end.
They’d rather write their last note
and swallow too many pills down their throat
Climb up high and take their last stride
because from society they can’t hide.
Don’t you find it strange, my dear
that this problem is so near?
Even when teens have come this far,
they’d rather die than be who they are.
And yet no one’s reaching out
to tell kid’s what life is really about.