There'll come days when you'll have nothing to write
and trust me even that nothing will be enough
you'll try to embrace the hollow of deficiency
but choke in the dark fumes of attempting to put up a fight
against the void whilst you search for your efficiency
you will scratch your mind for just a word but in vain
shake you will the trees and nothing will fall,it will pain
no single leaf will, not even a dry little twig
you'll wander all over the gardens of creativity
but find no soft alluviums,not a single spot to dig
it will feel an unfair election that fate is going to rig
yet your petition will yield no fruit, not an apple,nor a fig
your fingers will itch worse than infestation by a jigger
with the enema of motivation present but meagre
you'll miss the days whence it rained rhymes
oh! how much you'll long for those flooding times
like a pauper loitering the streets hopelessly thirsty for dimes
and the bells of your emotions will ring melancholic chimes
as you remember that sweet piece that got many hailing your prowess
and like a snail, return will your abilities in
an unbearable wait, call it a steady progress
you will be an active volcano whose vent's blocked from within
forced to abide by the nonentity blank of where to begin
unlike the usual floret and bombastic sweet nothings
you'll draw the fly speck in ink of unclear etchings
to give definition to the infinity of your nullity
and the insubstantiality of the ink sprayed
will be tattered clothes that patch your mental ******
you won't be satiated, but you'll survive the monsters of obsession that hide
in the furthest corners of your psychomotor, deep inside
and you'll appreciate the philosophy, sometimes obstacle's the path
for the scratch and naught from your struggle'll bear worth
so never take shelter under the sunless tree of the writers block
the wave of emotions poets command can break any stumbling block

'Cause if you wake up and it's still raining,
you can sleep some more.
And if tomorrow may not shine,
go out. Dance with the rain.
Sometimes that's all we really need.
'To see the beauty in the rain.'

I'm thirteen years old again. Sitting in the doctors office answering the question, "have you ever thought about committing suicide?" That questions hard for me. I've thought about dying. never doing the act myself. If I was hit by a car tomorrow never waking up, I would be ok with that. The doctor ended up telling my mom I should probably talk to someone. Crushing the "perfect family, my kids are flawless" picture she wanted a second opinion. Two years went by before I got that second opinion. In those two years I cut I stopped I cut I stopped. Doctor number 2 told my mom I should talk to someone, before I hurt myself. Doctor I'm 15 years old now a freshman in high school I've been talking to someone yet I still hurt myself. No one knows! I do the walk of shame, wearing sweatshirts and long sleeves in the summer. My answer to "why" was always, "I guess I'm just cold." My mom read my poem once it mentioned cutting. When she asked me I said no, she believed me. See I was scared my mom was going to lock me up in a psych ward. Tell everyone I was in boarding school, forgetting all about the ******* child who couldn't do anything right! I'm 18 years old now, I haven't cut in 3 years. I talked to the old me today, I thanked her for letting me live. But where were you, when you found out your child was imperfect?