Jack 1d
As my problems begin to multiply
Like knives in my heart, I start to cry
In this moment I look to the sky,
And pray there’s no soul more pained than I.
I wrote this poem a long time ago but only just rediscovered it, I hope you enjoy it. JY x
jas 5d
my demons come alive in the day time
not just at night ,
so if you ask me why
i never close my eyes ,
it just might be my mind filled with fright

with no chance of escape
i chase death to be my fate
should i hold my breath
i need not be saved
i must jump at the chance before it’s too late

hopeful to rise to heaven
as the demons cannot be risen
hopeful to leave this earth
with my body as their prison

if i should ever return
( that is believing in reincarnation)
amongst the streets a familiar face you’ve been missing

please , i beg of you

don’t tell my demons.
Tony Cortez May 15
It feels like If I don't talk about this
Then it's not going to leave
I don't want to but it will keep being an annoyance if I dont confront it

I have a lot of issues and many problems
Half the time I'm psychotic the other half depressed
She still loves me for me and every fiber of my being knows its unconditional

So to speak I have a problem
My head is wrong and my jealousy killed
At least I thought
My dream is to be a father to be
An inspiration to my future kids

And she has a best friend one who is very close and I don't hate him
I actually respect him and can't wait to meet him
But somewhere inside my head he represents a threat, a threat to my dream
Jealousy at its finest it's so stupid and ignorant and I hate myself for it
I try so hard to make sure she knows how I feel about her yet something inside wants me to fuck this up
To push her away forever and it's my dads curse
The lonliness to make sure I die of it and be alone

Truth is I respect the guy and love him for all that he has done for her
My fear is irrational and arrogant
I really don't deserve her
And she definitely deserves somebody better then me
Honestly I shouldn't be the one for her
Just the afterthought drifting in the clouds
I'm sorry, I'm hoping this helps kills it now that I've gotten it out of my system
Nyx May 13
Enter my mind
I dare you
Take a walk within my shoes
Jog a mile and see
Stop and live through my issues
Face the battlegrounds of mind and emotion
See the remains of my pain and devotion
Dodge the bullets of my insecurities and pressure
The further you go the wounds just get fresher

Take a walk down memory lane
A childhood of happiness with people unnamed
Smiles and laughter all is bright
But you reach a section when there is no longer any light
A place where you can hear screams and cries
Go to that place, Don't you dare turn a blind eye
Feel the pain, the overwhelming fear
Let it coarse through your body till your vision is unclear
Feel the aftermaths the trauma that goes on for years
Even to the current date you are unable to stop the tears

Open the book of the present
Flick through the endless pages
It may not be traumatic but the pain goes on for ages
Isolation, betrayal and all the backstabbing lies
It really is no wonder that so many of us cry
Lock up your feelings, become a void of emotion
After so many years you can feel the painful erosion
Keep trying to fit in, do your best with what you've got
Even though sometimes that will never be enough
Force on that smile and act as you normally would
As a little bit of acting will do you quiet good

So take a step back
Return to your own life
You don't know what anyone is going through
So don't you dare try and judge somebody's life
We are all crazy, mental, we've been through some fucked up things
But each experience is different, don't try and act like your a king
Each mindset is different, Its complicated and complex
So the least you can do is show some basic respect

Our minds aren't kind
Not to you or even ourselves
We just push through and work around it
We don't need another person adding to our hell
Deal with your own problems, Face your own fears
Don't hurt anybody else in the process
Because in the end
Only you can see into your mind
nic carwile May 12
I used to only write my poems in second person
trading out 'I' for 'You'
It made the things I was addressing
My past and my present problems
A little more fiction,
and a little less important
"Of course I'm not writing about myself!"
I'd say as I wrote off people's concerns,
and I'd point out that,
"See? It says 'you,' not 'I'"
Stewart R H May 10
I feel so many emotions that I go numb


Making my skin



match my heart;



They're both in tatters
oooooooof
Stewart R H May 9
Dear 2020,


   “I know that this is going to be the last letter. Things have gotten worse, so much worse, and I know that I will disappear like I was never there. I never affected anyone much, really, I just got in the way, and caused people shame. I’ve caused myself shame. I’ve done all the wrong things, and I know that now I am a burden on my family. They have all gotten tenser since I was diagnosed. They have gotten angrier, now they fight more than they ever used to. I am such a burden on them. They don’t need me, all I do is disappear into my room and try to pray for God to kill me in my sleep or something, which obviously isn’t working. I’ve brought everyone's mood down. I’m sorry if I had seemed promising before, I will have never had much of a life at this rate and I know Sean can be”

   I don’t know what else to say. I believe in it all, except for the part about this being the last letter, but if I had written to you last night like I was going to then this is probably what I would have said. I instead used a crisis text line, which helped… for a while.
   I don’t like coming home anymore. I don’t think Connor, and the rest of them could understand, when it’s not abuse or anything, it’s just so unhappy here. Everything is tense, and it doesn’t feel like a home anymore. I am yelled at so much, and cut so little slack.
   I am eating again… way too much. And I’ve… found another razor head. After all that digging in my bathroom, I knew I would. But if I’ll use it… Oh, I know I probably will. Having my body hurt takes my mind off of my heart, which is why I also like P.E. Even know, with my hand wrapped up, I earn so much sympathy at school when Connor is really the only one who knows what really happened to it. Well, Connor, my parents, and you.
   I really don’t think my parents love me anymore. They had loved a tomboy, with long hair, extroverted, with skills at writing and drawing and who didn’t care whether people hated her or loved her. I am feminine, with a boy’s haircut that I don’t like to brush, introverted, with anorexic tendencies and no passion or skills at anything at all. And yet somehow my broken, hurting self-attracts people. Overall of my years in elementary school, three people had confessed their feelings for me. In this year alone, it has been five. What hurts is knowing that even those who I do like back I could never be a worthy partner for. The chance of my dying, lashing out at them, or simply deciding to ignore them as an isolationist technique to be happy is much too high, which is why only two of them like me now.
   I’m so tired. All the time. Even when I take naps (for instance today I fell asleep at Walmart) I am still extremely tired. I think I am just tired of being here. I want to go home. I say this a lot to myself, although I don’t really know where I mean by home. I think I mean this third dimension, one I’ve thought up myself. It’s the place I go when I sleep, or when I’ in my room by myself for a long time doing nothing. Sometimes when I say I want to go home I mean that I want to die, so that I could live in that third dimension forever. I would really like that.
   It’s called the third dimension because if my actual house is the first dimension, and school is the second, then that is the third. The rest of my world (Walmart, the castle, etc.) is just surrounding fabric of the first (and largest) dimension. But when I don’t want to be either at home or school, I want to go to the third dimension. Which is like death, and can be rarely mimicked from one of the other dimension. And even if I am homeschooled next year, I will not be able to escape the first dimension. So I need, and want, the third.


That is all I have to say, really, except that I am thinking of posting these letters on my Hello Poetry page, since I will never read them in 2020, and perhaps someone will find that I am relatable. Or stupid.


Love always,


Hollin
I wrote this today
Stewart R H May 9
Dear 2020,

   I was planning on writing you a letter that explained in my own words everything that happened this morning, but if you’ll please excuse me, then I won’t. I simply don’t feel like I want to relive such an experience through writing to you about it. I’m sorry.
   All that you really need to take away from this morning to understand where I am now is these things:
I started eating semi-normally again
Dad doesn’t understand/ believe in apps like Calm Harm and Breathe. He instead thinks that forcing me to work when I’m down works instead. He obviously has no idea.
When I’m really down, I check-out. (I will explain this in a moment)
Dad doesn’t really love me. (I know, I know. Obvious, right?)
School is now officially better than home.
I like ants and wish I had been born one.
Lo-fi hip hop is my new jam.
I forgot to take my medicine last night, and nobody cut me any slack. (My mom is supposed to remind me, but did she apologize? NO, she was just angry that I didn’t go to school today)
I didn’t go to school today but wish I had.
When I check-out my self-harm risk level rises dramatically
I don’t need knives or razors to self-harm.
My knuckles are greatly torn and the sidewalk is bloody.
I can’t talk much when I check out, and self-harm makes me smile.
If I self-harm enough, I go numb.
I can’t remember clearly what happens when I check out and when I check out I lose track of time.
I think my dad called me an idiot.
I’m pretty sure that Dad likes Sean better than me and probably wishes I was more like him. So do I, lol.
I really don’t have any explanation about my knuckles. I don’t know at all what I will say to people at school, the doctor, or the therapists, or Ginger. My mom asked me why, and I just said, “I’m sorry.” (I was still half checked-out then)
The reason I was outside on the sidewalk at all is that Dad told me to go pull weeds.
After the knuckles, Mom told me to put on her gloves and I think I bled enough to ruin the leather forever.
My knuckles will probably be scared because they bled more than my wrist and that is scarred.
I never want to have a husband. I either want a wife or no spouse at all.
I am kind of scared of my Dad but hate him at the same time.
Dad acts like nothing is wrong.
I think Dad is angry because if it weren’t for me, he’d have a perfect, normal family.
I can never see men the same way again.
“Quit being an idiot. Do you feel better now, eh?”
About an hour after I checked back in, I had the worst and longest chest pain of my life.
I know I just basically told you what happened in the morning, but this way it doesn’t hurt as much to relive. Besides, If you're reading this then you probably already know what happened.



   Anyways, I cleaned my room. And I took down all the posters, art and stuff yesterday. I even turned my books the other way so that I don’t have to see the art on them. Sometimes seeing things with art is like a slap in the face, as if the book itself is saying, “Look what I can do, what you can’t!”
   The app called Calm Harm says that you should record when you self-harm and write what the trigger might have been. The first times it was because my mother was leaving. This time I think I was scared, angry, and suicidal, which are amplified when I check-out. I couldn’t get a grip on reality at all (hence being checked-out) and I guess this way brought (even if only a little bit) back to reality. But really, I don’t like talking about it at all. Especially not in person.
   I told Lauren this yesterday (from the 741741 crisis helpline) I don’t know how I would kill myself, but I know where. I would kill myself in the place that I used to go to be happy. I meant the place underneath the highway, on the neighbor’s property across the highway. Noone is ever there, so the police (when they went looking for me) would find my body, not my mother. And I think it is kind of metaphoric (Lauren called it philosophic), going to the place I used to be happy, so I can be happy one last time as I kill myself. But unless I brought my own rope for hanging, or gun for shooting or something, I could really only drown myself there (since it’s in the creek). And I’ve read about that, read that it is a horrible way to die and that it’s very hard too because your body is fighting against you and that if you fail, you could have serious brain damage. I am very scared of that, failing I mean. I would much rather use something I know would work, like noose or gun than something that has a significant chance of not working, like wrist slitting, drowning, of jumping. I’m sorry. This is a bit morbid, and I know I should write about them. But it is better to write to you about them, and get them out than it is to have them rattling around in my brain until I do them, is it not?
   I believe so.

With as much love as I can muster (which isn’t much),

Love,


Hollin Stewart
That day was ruff.
Stewart R H May 9
Dear 2020,

   I don’t really have anything to talk about. I just felt like typing. And talking to you. I guess there is always something to talk about, really, just ramble on about. Especially when you talk as little as I do sometimes. Honestly, I think I say more to you in a letter than I would in a whole day!
   The thing is, I’m a little bummed about my Dad. I’ve never been a “Daddy’s girl” or as close to my Dad I was to my Mom, but things started to change in fourth grade. I realized, Hey. I don’t love this person. At the time, the thought of the perfect, loving family had been ingrained in me, so I thought I should just try harder.
   It was in fifth grade that I started to actively dislike him, and in sixth grade I had caught myself thinking, God, I hate him! Of course, I was embarrassed that I should think this and told myself that I didn’t hate him, I hated some of the things he did. In seventh grade, I now know that I hate him. And I feel bad. It isn’t really an active hate so much as avoiding him because I don’t like him and don’t want to talk to him.
   But I think today has changed that. I think today has seriously affected the way I see him, think about him. He has convinced me, through the ways that he treats my mother and me, that I never want a husband. I believe I shall look at men a bit differently from this day on. Because today was the worst day I have ever had with him, a day where seeing him triggered more gasping and crying.
    Because until today, it had simply been hate, contempt, whatever you want to call it. Until today, I simply dislike him and strived to be as far unlike him as I could. But today added a new emotion to my dislike. Today he added fear. He now adds to the stress in my life. I now try to limit to a number of words I say in front of him and carefully monitor how much emotion I show. I do not want him to come to my chorus concert tomorrow. I really do not.
    Because my friends have, on a good day, heard me saying that I do not want to go home. This is usually because I do not want to have to deal with my parents (with my father) and I do not want him to ruin the good mood I am currently in. They had asked why I didn’t want to go home, and I simply said that my father was an asshole, and didn’t want to say anything more about it. And this is true; everyone who knows him, even his mother, would deem calling him an asshole. Because he is. I just wonder what my friends, who have heard me use those lines those few times, heard me actively disliking someone when I dislike no one else, will wonder. I wonder what they will think when I come back after missing school, obviously injured and shaken. I wonder what they will think when they see me, dour and grim, dressed in black beside my father as we enter the school building for the chorus concert and rushing backstage as soon as possible to get away from him. Frowning when he makes fun of my friends, though they may be laughing themselves. I wonder what they will think.
   Perhaps, they will simply wonder if he is abusive. And I assure you, he is not. I simply think that he is just not a very good father. Or, perhaps like the teacher who does not work well with the student, perhaps he is a good father, just not the kind of father I need as a role model. Perhaps if our personalities had fit together better, like his and Sean’s, then things would have been better. Because I have to wonder if the lack of sufficient male role model (first, he stopped being at home, then we fought when he was) and instead overabundance of female role model (I am almost always by my mother’s side) is why I like both females and males, but females more.
   Haha, to think of how if my father read this, he would chuckle and completely disregard my words, unwilling to assume they hold any actual value. He would scoff at how wonderfully the apps that he, this morning, had dismissed as ridiculous were helping me.
   If I died, he wouldn’t blame himself. He wouldn’t think of the myriad ways that he could have been a better, more responsible, more caring father for me. He would blame me, and he would blame depression, saying that if I had simply followed his instructions more carefully, and perhaps not cried so often, that I could have easily been saved. He would blame depression and talk long and loud about how “nonsensical” and “absurd” it makes people. He would blame my mother, who has a line of depression in her family. He would blame everyone, everyone but himself, and mostly he would blame me, and weakness. Me and my inability to cope with the world the way he wanted me to. Instead of riding over the waves, like the apps greatly help me do, he wants me to dive straight through them. And I hate him for it, for I can see that when I check-out, for I know I will when he makes me dive, that I will keep hurting myself.
   I don’t want to talk about him anymore. It’s making me upset.



   Sometimes, I wish I could float away like a cloud on the soft Spring breezes that roll through. Simply glide away, like the dandelion puff that someone has made a wish on.
   In my good moments, I will usually wish on dandelions for things like happiness, or more good times. In my bad moments, which I think are more often, I wish for death.
   Sometimes I wonder if depression can kill you. I don’t mean suicide, I mean, can you simply drop dead from sadness? I think this is a silly thought. But I like believing in it. I don’t want to look up whether you can or not, because I suspect you can’t, but I like to believe that when I’m in line at McDonald's buying my fries and milkshake I will simply keel over and die. Seriously, I really want some McDonalds.
   I am in a pretty good mood, good enough to put little gluttonous plot twists on the ends of my morbid wonderings. I don’t even think dad could ruin my mood at this point, though I am probably sorely mistaken.
   And I’m pretty excited about tonight. There’s nothing new going on, I just really look forward to the time of day when I listen to the late-night lo-fi hip hop and chill in the pitch dark. Most of the time, it's the only thing I have to look forward to.
   Okay, so in The Fault In Our Stars, Hazel talks about how, a lot of times, she’ll get off easy for something because she has cancer. It’s because of pity, and how life-threatening it is, and blah blah blah. Sometimes, and I find this pretty funny (but it doesn’t work with my dad, big surprise there) my Mom will, like, be extra nice or help me out with buying something after a therapy session. Or when I’m having a low moment. I call these Depression Perks because I know my Mom feels super bad about how she cursed me with de-press-ion (dun dun dun) and how I’m like suicidal and all that. Anyway, I guess I’m just greedy, but I kind of like these little Depression Perks, because I really am cursed with de-press-ion and it totally sucks. Haha.

Love,



Hoolin Occupation
I really liked The Fault In Our Stars as a book, but the movie wasn't that great...
Stewart R H May 9
Dear 2020,


   I never want to leave my room again. I’ve gotten lazy in a way that is extremely difficult to describe. Taking a shower, eating food, leaving my room, going to school, getting up in the morning, putting on clothes, talking to people, it’s all gotten much harder than it was last week.
   All these damned meds, all the damned appointments, and I’m just getting worse. I saw Machaela this weekend. It was great, amazing really, but leaving has made it all bad again.
   I’ve gotten really bad about expressing my feelings. I don’t show them at all sometimes. Sometimes I hold them in until one tiny thing makes them all crash down. But mostly, I just pretend they aren’t there at all.
   Just like how, right now, I quite angry about the fact that I am constantly feeling bad, depressed, down, and don’t get more attention about it from others. People are always doting on people like Elijah, who shows his feelings of depression OBNOXIOUSLY loud and stubbornly, and no one seems to care how I feel, even my Mom because I don’t show my feelings the way normal people do. But, do I do anything the way normal people do? Not anymore. Not anymore.
   I’m so boring. I literally do nothing interesting on my computer anymore. Nothing that could start a conversation. I mean, I start conversations about the things I used to do on my computer, but not the things I do now. I mean, does anyone really want to hear about how I listen to lo-fi hip-hop, write to you, look up reasons not to kill myself, and on very ultra rare occasion- take a typing test or write a chapter in my book?
   I’ve gotten angrier lately. Not in public, of course. Most of my friends can’t even imagine me being angry. Because before now, the only reason I was angry was my Dad. Now, I’m angry about everything. I’m trapped in this world that I hate, everyone is trapped here, and there’s no way to free myself that doesn’t have a chance of hurting one of the few people I care about more than this terrible world already has.
   I hate this world. It lies. It seems beautiful and peaceful and tranquil, but this world is lying to you. It is horrible and I hate it and I want to leave and I don’t even know if I’m even angry but I want to complain because I’m hurting on the inside like that baby bunny who was crushed underneath the barrel by the dogs and died from injuries on the inside of its body. The bunny is me, and no matter how alive we may look, we are dying and we know it and you might as well just look away. Because I didn’t even have the respect for that bunny to watch it die, and no one here is having the respect for me to watch me die. They are all turning, they are all turning their backs on me.
   I actually. I don’t know what I’m yelling about. I told you that I wrote a chapter of my book, but I doubt I will be able to do so again. And ever since I stopped being able to draw I’ve just started hating everything I ever drew or that has any art on it at all. I want all of that stuff to go away, stop reminding me of how I used to have two things I was good at.




At this point I’m honestly hoping you are dead and someone else is reading this. Because no matter how many “why not to kill yourself”s I read, scars I leave, tears I shed, Meals I skip, no matter how many times I try to do what I used to do with ease, It doesnt cease rthe PAIN THAT i FEEL ON THE INSIDE LIKE THE BUNNY AND i’M SCREAMING TO YOU IN CAPS BECAUSE I SCREAM AT MY SELF IN MY MIND AND I WANT TO DIE AND I WANT TO DIE AND I SAY THAT EVERY GODDAMNED DAY i SWEAR I DO BUT IT DOESNT HELP I WANT TO DIE EVERRY DAY FOR AS LONG AS I CAN REMEMBER AND NOTHING HELPS JUST KILL ME P[LEASE I DONT CARE IF I HURT THE FEW PEOPLE I HURT YOU won't FIND MY BODY ILL KILL MYSELF IN THE PLACE THAT WAS MY HAPPY SPACE WITH HER BEFORE SHE HATED ME AND Befor e my DEPRESSION AND MY GODDAMNED ANXIETY AND MY FUCKING ANOREXIA TOOK OVER AND I CANT ENJOY EVERYTHING YOU won't FIND ME THERE BECAUSE THAT WAS ONE SECRET I KEPT5drsy i,uers7ujojw3lki8wiuirweuijweruhjkrewhureDSFWJKDWQUFEWQOUBWQKBJWQ­BKFWQBUFSCQBEHKWCKUBSEUOQBTGVO3NFDBIG73QUHJDSNLI3BGUJRBHT4ILWFEQK­HDUILREHNFSDKJ
I don't like the way that this poem ends, but I don't like the mood I was in when I wrote this poem either
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