Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
Timothy Stout Nov 2014
I walk this hall; it is full but no attention goes to me.
I am a ghost among mortals.
My size would make you assume that I am seen, but inside, I make myself microscopic.
I don't want to be noticed, because the last time I was noticed, the most attention was a slap in the stomach, and a slur of slander creeping through my ears.
The thought never leaves.
It invades and cannot be driven out.
So yes I choose to go unnoticed.
My fears help me do that.
"He should be talking to others."
"He should play with the other kids."
Look at them.
They feel they know how to make it better.
They think they can fix me.
What do they know the closest to bullying they know is limited to Hollywood bullying.
But what do they know.
This new breed of bullying, this evolution of condemnation is unreal to them.
I want to believe them,
I want help.
But the more they try the more I want to do this by myself because silence is where I find peace, Silence does not call me fat.
Silence does not laugh at the way I dress or the way I walk.
So this is why I choose silence. This is why I'm invisible


*I dedicate this poem to the people who made me not want to live. your efforts to destroy me simply made me stronger; thank you
  Nov 2014 Timothy Stout
Emma
I just want to be remembered.

I just want to hear my name be spoken when I can no longer speak myself. Me. Me. Me. Me and you. You and I.

I just want someone to cry, pressing their phone to their ear, listening through the ringing, listening to the beep, listening to the voice mail. Listening to my voice. Again. Another round. Beep. Just one more time. I’m not here right now but you can leave me a message.

I just want someone to get on their knees, beg for me, please come back; you can’t be gone; you couldn't leave so quickly, so quietly, so young.

I just want to watch my funeral; watch the people who say they loved me, watch the people who say they will always remember, watch the people who will forget me in four months; watch them cry their forced tears over my dead body. We’ll all miss you.
You were always a beautiful person.

I just want to find my name written in the margin of someone’s notebook. Over and over. Again. Again. Darker. Again.
Break the pencil. Wipe the tears off the paper.
Start over with a new pencil.

I just want to watch him crumble; say his last goodbye, say another last goodbye, say it until his voice has grown hoarse and he can say it no longer; I love you. I will always love you. Why’d you leave me? Why would you do this to me? I needed you; I still need you.
I need you here so I can say goodbye. I need to say goodbye.
*Goodbye.
Out of the night that covers me,
  Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
  For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
  I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
  My head is ******, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
  Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
  Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
  How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
  I am the captain of my soul.
Timothy Stout Nov 2014
Perfection is in imperfection.
Your scars tell a story.
A story of struggles.
A story of life.
A story of strength.
These lines you write,
a blade as a pen,
have meaning.
They are dangerous,
but so are words.
Share with me what you share with your wrists.
Share your worries.
Your fears.
Your anger.
Your love.
Some secrets deserve to be shared
Timothy Stout Nov 2014
I lay here in this dark room restless.
No yonder sound than the tick-tock of the clock that mocks my singularity;
my loneliness.
Every rhythmic chyme reminds me of the seconds away from you.
Time spent longing for your warmth:
your presence.
Oh Day, Oh Night.
Why oh day is there not enough time,
and why oh night do you drag on like time itself has ceased?
Because of your lengths, I am separated from my love.
with her I feel complete,
I feel important.
Like every touch is meaningful.

— The End —