You never said more than ten words to me                                                               ­                                                      and  that's just a **** tragedy                                                     ­                   You had a hard time showing your love                                                      made  me feel not good enough                                                           ­   You  never said I am proud of you                                                          so  I  stopped trying to prove  it to  you                                                          ­  You  ignored me most of my life                                                             ­      and that cut me like a knife                                                            ­       Old woman take a look at me                                                               ­   I'm  more than you'll ever be                                                               ­          Now I look at you with pity                                                             ­        I  didn't need you to validate me

i don’t just crave validation,
i need it.
i need it like some people need a drink in their hands,
i need it like it’s the cigarette between my lips.

it’s the air in my lungs,
my food and my drink.
it’s not just music to my ears—
it’s the only sound i hear.

i know i’m not your favorite,
not really.
but you told me i was,
three months ago.
and i wrote that in my journal.
i etched that in my heart.

i hold up my poems,
these nonsense words i call art,
and i need a compliment,
i need a hug.
so that i know i’m not just some girl,
the girl you whisper about when she’s not there.
so that i know
there’s a reason i give and give.

so that i know i’m someone’s favorite.

There’s more times than I can count
That I’ve wondered whether I was enough.
That I’ve wondered if I was good.

I can’t create art that people fall in love with
I can’t be there to support those I love
I can’t be pretty or smart or socially acceptably good.

I don’t know why
I really don’t

Sometimes I feel like
I’m not trying hard enough
And sometimes I feel like
I’m trying too hard
For something that can’t happen

So tell me,
For all that I love,
Am I enough?
Am I good?

I crave validation.
I want—no, need it like a lifeline,
Like a child in the face of a sweet treat,
Like a bird to a worm writhing from the ground,
Like a starving man at the mere sight of food,
Like a wolf to whoever dares harm its pack.
It sears through my body like white, burning pain,
It rips me of my sight to consequence,
It’s a drowning poison, yes.
But how am I supposed to let go?
How am I supposed to not look at any sort of praise and think,
God, I want that.
It tears me apart like a knife does in snow,
Jelly,
         Water,
                     Air,
But I would be a liar to say that isn’t what I want.
Is it a fault of mine that I desire with all my ****** up being
for something that isn’t a momentary
“Okay,”
              “Alright,”
                      ­           “Good job,”
                                                       “You’re fine,”
It’s not, it’s not okay or alright or good or fine,
I need someone to scream at me that what I’ve done is perfect,
More than great,
More than amazing,
More than wonderful, or spectacular,
More than perfect.
And if I can’t have that,
Then at least yell at me that what I’ve done is nothing,
At least beat the ****** **** out of me
And tell me to go **** myself.
Because that hurts less than
A bunch of half-hearted responses that
I never know how to interpret over text,
And never know how to comprehend in speech.
Just spare me the misery, that’s all I need.
I’d prefer you be cruel than make me guess
What you’re thinking.
Because it always eventually occurs to me that
Neither what you’re thinking or saying
Are the validation I crave.
So just save us all the trouble
And put me out of my ****** misery
Already.
Because if I’m not everything,
Then what can I be but nothing?

I look through the posts of my many friends-
A hundred likes here and a thousand likes there.

My heart feels the ache of wanting to be known
As I look through all my numerous posts.

Only a like here and a like there,
The dangers of social media I bear.

the great thing about Bic-Round Stic M is that the ink doesn't bleed through the paper.

singing all day - will the willing to write songs and produce a great debut album.

where do i stand? anywhere—

where are you?

babe…

why must you ask such trivial questions?

then again, i grapple with an external validation problem,

curbed by a body—my own diary.

andy denson's diaries, tales—sweet.

thoughts flutter like moths to a flame,

yearning for the light of recognition,

yet finding solace in the shadows.

the pages absorb my musings,

ink drying without a trace.

validation is like drugs. the first time i got validated, i felt like i was floating. i was above cloud 9 just by someone telling me “you’re my friend” in the third grade. not best friend. not my soulmate. friend, and i couldn’t stop my smile from spreading. feeling needed by someone who doesn’t actually need you is a fantastic feeling. that’s why my heart races when anybody invites me to hang out. they didn’t need attention - didn’t need my attention, specifically -  but the syringe filled with proof that i am a fun person to be around sticks directly into my veins and stays there until the medicine runs out and i no longer have the serotonin for those around me. the euphoria and i dwindle, and i grow distant, because it’s become evident that i wasn’t needed for your journey; i was just a pitstop. someone who could give you some laughs but doesn’t have enough advice to listen to your problems. i can tell you your dress looks nice but i don’t have enough courage to defend you in a fight. i can remember your favorite color but you didn’t remember me enough to resurface old photos of us at fifteen and smile at the thought of our memories. i’ve been down this road before. trust me, i have. i want to be seen, but not to be sorry for. don’t look at my past and defy it as my present. i’m not the lonely kid who sat on swingsets and barely had the strength to push herself. i’m not the little girl who had no one to twirl me during daddy-daughter dances. i am still the girl who wishes things were different, but you don’t need to know that. so please, tell me that i’ve changed. tell me that you’re proud. tell me that everything is going to be okay, and that i’m worthy to stay the night. that i won’t become another pitstop.