I became a writer
Because I didn’t have anything
But hollow words
In the books I read,
And my thoughts
Died every few days
Because I forgot them.

Worthless things
Became necessary
And I started to see
I never belonged
Anywhere I was.

My mother
Said it was just
“growing up”.

I became distant
And I started
To hate all my friends
And the way they seemed
Better than me.

My pain became
On my arms
And my legs.

I cried before
The sun rose
Because each night
I couldn’t sleep.

Mostly because
I didn’t try.

But then
I started to write.

And nothing changed,
Except that
Instead of giving up
All the time
I tried.

I threw away
My blades
And fought with
The nightmares
That kept me awake,
And even though
All the hard things in life
I wrote
And wrote
And tried.

The End

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