I used to hide my scars, forever ashamed by the marks covering my skin. From my wrists to my thighs, fading little white lines. Starring at them now like my skin is a piece of paper waiting for an author to mark me with his words. I don’t hide my scars anymore, for they have created a place to write poetry.

At one moment, your depression is telling you that you don't care what happens. Then the next moment, your anxiety is screaming and clawing at you to do something. Having depression and anxiety is a constant war inside of yourself. Though, there are no winners.

We all have our scars,
Yours on the inside,
Mine on my arm,
We all have our stories,
Yours you share,
Mine I try and hide,
We all have our day,
Mine just so happens,
To be fifty years before yours

My last day I had to live.
Was all peace and quiet.
Before they came up to me with a rope.
Saying run and jump like in the movies.
An hour later they came again.
Handing me a knife.
Saying just a little cut or three.
Two hours later.
They came up to me.
Handing me duct tape.
Saying try not to scream.
Four hours later.
They never came back.
It was just me and things they left
I tied the rope around my neck.
And duct tapped my mouth.
Trying not to scream.
I took the knife, and started to bleed.
I ran and jumped, just like a queen.
Before I knew it.
I was gone.
And all I heard
Was a sad, sad.
Song.

"I'm fine," she says with a halfhearted grin.
"I'm fine," she says again, waving away a helpful hand.
"I'm fine," she says to herself, several minutes later.
"I'm fine," she whispers, wiping her face.
She's not fine.

"I'm fine," she says moments after the cry leaves her lips.
"I'm fine," she says to herself, sinking to the floor.
"I'm fine," she tells herself, shaking in a ball.
"I'm fine," she repeats, picking up the razorblade.
She's not fine.

"I'm fine," she says to her concerned family.
"I'm fine," she insists as those who love her worry.
"I'm fine," she says to anyone who listens.
"I'm fine," she lies as she slices her wrists.
She's not fine.

"I'm fine," she cries, sobbing on the bathroom floor.
"I'm fine," she wails, but only in a whisper.
"I'm fine," she mutters, watching the blood leave her wrist.
"I'm fine," she practices, stepping from the room.
She's not fine.

"I'm fine," she assures the world outside.

Sun is like your smile
Many days it's there but some it's not
It illuminates all around
Like your smile when it's out
Exactly like your smile is the sun

Pain......Pain.......Pain......
Death's Gentle Touch.                

Pain.....Pain.....Pain.....              
A measure of a souls worth.
                                      
Pain....Pain....Pai­n....      
A simple reminder, of what we are.
                    
Pain...Pain...Pain...        
Fragile, weak, selfish.
                  
Pain..Pain..Pain..
We learn from it.

Pain.Pain.Pain.
But what is it we truly gain?