Some people say
they don't like thunderstorms.
But I, for one,
love them.
Because when my thoughts
are persuading me
to do things
that will not only hurt me
but those around me--
the penetrating sounds of thunder
comfort me
when nobody else would.

They never actually see me at my worst
and definitely not at my best.

This emptiness
fills my being like blood,
running through my veins.

This loneliness
holds me
like no one ever could.

This poison
infects my brain
like a deadly virus
slowing killing me
without anyone knowing.

I feel trapped
and I'm scared of what might happen,
I'm scared of what I might do,
but most of all--
I'm scared of my thoughts.

Because I'm a hostage of my own mind
and the worst part is;
no one can hear me scream.

And while I sit here
near the fire
I wonder how the electric
movements of the flames
would feel on my
skin.
Captivating as it dances,
just drawing me in closer.
I guess it's good that I'm not alone right now.
But it's beautiful.
Not the flames,
but the thought of pain.

Why do I care so much?
Can I not say what's on my mind,
when it needs to be said?
It's frustrating.
But you wouldn't know,
since all I ever talk about
is the fake ******* I know you wanna hear.
Because who would ever want
to know what's on my mind?
No one.
Anyway,
don't you remember?
You said "it's **** well obvious.."--
it's **** well obvious
that I'm done.

Pencils, pastels, pens,
and black ink.
Sharp knives, razors, blades
and red "ink".
I'm an artist and everything
is
my
canvas.
My world is more
black and red,
rather than black and white;
because what's the point of life
if you don't have a mess to clean up?
Spilled blotches of reds
arraid in the white cracks of the canvas.
A beautiful masterpiece
in the eyes of the mad.
But I need to stop
and save my ink for another day.
Because for some odd reason
I always find my self painting
when I'm sad.
It's too bad,
this piece was one of my best.
Depression aside.
Let me clean up my floor,
I mean canvas.
And put my knife away,
I mean paint brush.
And get the band aids out,
because not everybody likes my art.
They say beauty is only skin deep,
but really,
I've made it to the bone.

I fell through blackness
and entered infinite silence.
How long has it been?
One.. two... three minutes maybe?
An hour or two?
Five years? Maybe ten?
Either way, I made it
to wonderland once again.
What happened to everyone?
The tea is cold, and there's a note on the table.
No.
No!
This isn't right!
"The caterpillar died from an overdose.
The rabbit by stress.
And the madness has seemed to have gotten to
the Mad Hatter at last."
My heart drops as tears blur my vision.
There's one more line left:
"You're next."
Signed Death.
And as I looked into nothingness,
a voice whispers:
"And my dear, you are not Alice.
And this is not Wonderland."

It's what I do all day.
Thinking of how to fit into society.
How to fix all the dysfunctional parts in me.
Don't show weakness,
tears,
or sadness.
Be a leader not a follower.
Be confident in what you do.
Be photogenic, because
ugliness
is not an option
and your image
is everything.
You have to get good grades
but act like you couldn't care less.
Acting fake is the only way to go
because when you're yourself
they
judge
you.
It's a lot to think about
and takes a lot of energy and hard work
but society has it's demands.
And when I wake up again tomorrow,
I'll put my Barbie face on
only to think of ways to simply
fit in.

I shuffle my way into the kitchen,
suicidal thoughts running through my head
"you're worthless"
"you're stupid"
"you're ugly"
Thats the only thing I hear.

I grab the sharpest blade from the drawer
slit  slit  slit
It hurts
but at the same time
it feels amazing.
I need to stop
but I can't.
drip  drip  drip
My blood splatters onto the floor,
with every cut
more and more blood
trickles down.
This is so relieving.
The knife is cutting out every insult,
abolishing all of my glitches.
all of my failures are replaced with integrity.
I feel as if I were new.

With this knife,
I'm going to carve a better me.

I'm so numb
I cant feel
I need to know if I'm still alive
But how there's only one way
and I cant go through that path again
I cant... I shouldn't... BUT I MUST!
I grabbed a blade dugged it into my poor lifeless skin
I started to feel
I feel the pain
I feel the blood dripping
and I hear it splashing to the floor
to the puddle by my feet
I feel alive I stopped for a second
But here comes the numbness and the lifeless me again
I needed more
I cut again a I ripped my skin apart inch by inch
I felt so alive like I'm not dead that I'm actually living