Poetry Book

9

It feels like yesterday when I was 9 years old.

I'm 15 now, but nothing ever feels like it's the right mold.

I try to tell you how I feel, but everytime I just don't feel real.

I can pretend like nothings ever wrong. But I can never feel like I belong.

If beauty is normal, what am I?

If being loved is like a rose, why haven't I been picked?

If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, why am I not in view.

Every time I look at you, I can't help but envy you.

That 9 year old is dead, and has been.

But I'm still here, I've always have been.

What's the point in believing, If everyday is the same old feeling.

And theirs no real way to say it, if in their eyes, you'll always be that no one.

But when I die, I want to be a someone.

But that someone died 6 years ago, so now I have to go.

The pain is sharp like a knife, and it could've taken her own life. She was strong, much stronger than I.

And that's the problem.