At what point in my life did I decide that after being born into pain, it is the life I must choose forever?

My music only gets slower
and my lyrics sadder
just as I do

And if my last words uttered were going to be lies,
this time I will die in silence

Why is it you who makes this suffering
taste that much sweeter?

We're all just a bunch of dying writers
trying to live again,
only able to mend ourselves with words
never spoken aloud.
Poetry is born out of brokenness and healing,
so whether you are hurting or putting
your pieces back together,
please never stop writing.

They call you crazy
but I know you’re just lost
Choice
Is the word they use to describe your actions
“Why did she choose to leave her kids”
“Why can’t she choose to put down the bottle”
But I promise mom,
I promise you’re not crazy
because I feel it too
I’m not sure how we got here
or how we will manage to get back
but I promise we will find peace one day
and we will do it together

Sobriety
has brought me a clearer head
for all my thoughts to fill

And that is why I hate it

I think the saddest thing
is when someone stops longing to be understood
When you, a poet, lays down your pen
after too many unheard words
you stop going to therapy
because you have said all you can out loud
You stop faking your smile
and nobody notices,
maybe they knew it was fake all along
nobody reaches out once you stop asking about them first
In the end you’ll fade away just as you wished

I am not sure who infected who,
all I know is we are only rotting together

You broke my heart into a thousand pieces,
and all I could think about was how I could make you feel better

There is so little of me left,
and yet so many holes to fill.
Will I ever be whole?

Why would I beg for a caring hand
when I can just pay for one?

If you keep treating me as a poison,
I will only consume myself entirely.

And I know that
if I begged my mom to talk to me
before I killed myself,
she still wouldn’t pick up

you can’t keep chewing me up and spitting me out until you get the flavor you want.

Even when the apple does fall far from the tree, that doesn’t mean it isn’t bruised on the way down.

Tired of always getting lost in my thoughts,
and always in thoughts that make me feel lost.

I’m an ill girl with an ill mind,
grew up in an ill world and I fell behind.
They watched me grow, then watched me grow weak,
I’ve asked for help but can no longer reach.
The pain has made a home, the hatred settled in,
I’ve come to accept that I will not win.
So please don’t beg and don’t wipe my tears,
these things you’re trying to prevent I no longer fear.

I’m an ill boy with an ill life,
grew up in an ill home and I turned to the knife.
It helped me at night and it helped me to cope,
I’ve since searched to feel more and turned to dope.
This pain is far too familiar, it has become a part of me,
Ive made it clear I will not be here forever just wait and see.
So please don’t beg and don’t wipe my tears,
These things you’ve caused me to do silence my fears.

We walk and we lie with monsters
they hold our hands
caress our cheeks
plant kisses on our lips
some may even actually care
We become so sure of them
and so unsure of ourselves
that we still hold those hands even after they have bruised us
we still long for their touch
even when we know they don’t know how to caress anymore
we wish for their lips
all while they use them to spout hate in our direction
now that we know what they are capable of
their promise to love us til the end of time
is the scariest truth of all

My life did not fall apart
all at once or so suddenly
small pieces and fragments
began to wear down and
be stripped away slowly
first the distance
between my family grew
I was alone before I knew it
no longer crossing their minds
my body became weary
and my thoughts ran slower
my love for reading and school faded
love for myself declined rapidly then
I shed weight and I shed tears
remaining tucked away in my home alone
locked away with this brain
unsure if I want to stay anymore
still my questions go unanswered
why did they leave
where did my mind go
where can I find myself again.

You blamed the drugs
and you blamed the *****
Every time you took a look in the mirror
you chose to reassure yourself
instead of those you left behind
Even now after two months sober
no more drugs
and no more *****
you continue to be able to look at yourself in a mirror
and I have no ******* idea how

I’ve withered down to brittle bones
supporting a now hallowed shell,
begging the wind to take me.