I survived high school by a small crack of glass.
I caught myself  by the pad of my finger tips, on the splintered pane,
after falling off the edge of a world of depression, anger, and pain,
and it was from there I pulled myself up, feeling more alive than I had in my entire life.
Because it was through hell that I walked, feet burning, for the diploma I earned on stage.
It was through spider webs I passed, scratching invisible clinging memories off,
to march tall and strong, toward the future I thought was nonexistent a month before.  
I survived high school by the non-working baby hairs on the back of my neck.
The ones that are supposed to stand up like frightened Halloween cats whenever dangers approaches,
and yet when my danger came calling, laid calm like the summer sun on your concrete drive way
and it's because of this I stand here today, looking into the eyes of your fresh faces, fearing that you too may be walking on coals.
It's because of this I want to pour the knowledge of my journeys into the openings of your skin,
let you soak up my mistakes so that maybe, just maybe, you won't have to make as many of your own.
For there are some mistakes that will never heal.
So when you reach for that bottle, hands hungrily searching for something impossible to find in Absolute *****,
remember that the only thing at the bottom of that bottle is blurred memories.
When your skin gets the itch only a blade can scratch,
stop, drop the blade, and coming running as fast as you can back into my words.
Hear me when I tell you that beneath your skin lies not an escape from this life, but only more of your alive, beating, self.
And as much as your eyes might need proof that you're alive, your chest is always right there below your head,
ready to let you feel the heart inside that makes you such a precious addition to this world.
Feel  it.
Let it's pounding remind you that dropping calories and skipping meals won't solve your problems.
That being skinny, as much of a temptation as it can be, isn't a goal worth losing the breath from your lungs.
Trust me, I know. And I know that heartbreak and loss and hurt are more than enough to make you want to tear apart the fabric of your life and create something new from the threads.
But please know that in end you'll only wind up tangled in the mess,
calling out for people that you've pushed so far away they can no longer hear you.
So instead of ripping through the darkness, know that you don't have to start from scratch,
but merely dye yourself, your life, a different color.
Know that everything you've been through and everything you've seen is building who you are, who you will be, and that slowly but surely you are becoming a work of art so unspeakably beautiful that nothing like you has ever been made or seen before and hold on to that.
Hold on to the idea that this world, and these people, they need you.  
They want nothing more than to see what you turn out to be. I know that's how I feel.
I look at every single one of you and choke up at the thought of how you will stand out as the purist work of art ever imaginable one day.
The kind of art that comes only from a lifetime of living and moving on and starting over.  Hold on to that.
When the world comes to your window with wind and rain, when it tries to drown you in your own tears, and break your spirit with your own emotions, know that you aren't facing the hurricane alone.
I am here, and I know.
I know that no matter what happens, there is enough fire left in you to keep going.
You just have to dig deep enough to smell the smoke.

It never ceases to amaze me, how every day, children die.

And here, we don't seem to mind.

It always irks me, when people look in the mirror and complain about their extra pounds, while babies starve before their first birthday.

Yet everyday, we throw away pounds and pounds of food.

Tell me a story that ends happy. Spin me a tale where everyone shares. Because no matter how naive it makes me, I believe we should live in a world where everyone has enough to live by. I believe that every night, a little boy or girl, should had something more than dirt to eat.

I guess I'm a dreamer, but why not be? Why not dream up the world as a place where people live in harmony. Everyone says that with enough effort, your dreams can come true.

So what surprises you? That there is child hunger in the world? Or that more people aren't trying to stop it?

I wish I could stare down every girl,
and tell her that she is beautiful.
Tell her how she matters,
simply because she is here and she is alive.

I wish I could take away all her insecurity.
Because I've been there, through the darkness.
I've seen the pain, and hunger, and shame.
I would tell her that no matter how hard she tries,
no matter how much she starves herself,
the demons, they won't go away.

Because demons, they have a funny way of hiding.
Right there, inside that darkness.
No amount of purging will set them free.
No amount of blood shed will leak them out.
Demons hide in the darkness because there,
there they have power.

I wish I could shine a light,
for every girl who's ever struggled.
Because I know how hard it is to shine that light for yourself.
I would tell her that her demons, no matter how big,
are only shadows.
And shadows are always conquered by light.

I wish I could make girls see their beauty.
The beauty the world claims they don't have.
The beauty that demons,
brought on by magazine and commercial ads,
try to bury and hide.

I would tell them, every single girl,
that they are here, and they matter,
not because they are beautiful.
But that they are beautiful,
because they are here, and they matter.