A Collection Of Self Written Poems.

People actually liked these?

I remember. How it used to be.
Real laughs. Genuine smiles.
Warm hugs. Good appetite.
But looked what happened. Forced laughs. Fake smiles.
No hugs. No appetite without guilt. The demons have come . To roost. In my twisted mind . People get the credit. That used to be me. They are blind. To my suffering. They are deaf to my screams. And signs. That I exist.

I don't have to lie . Or pretend. They don't notice. My grim face. Or my voice. Or my cuts. I'm just a waste. Of space and air . So why do I exist? I'm going to die. Anyway. So why not now?

He never loved me. He loved her. Never made it to my birthday. Or the dance . I never had his heart. He never loved me.

You say you don't see scars. But they're there. Marking my soul . My heart . Just look harder. And you will see the scars .

If I eat . More than necessary. I get it out. I work hard. Two hundred times. Of three varieties. If I've been. What I consider a glutton. Then I amp it up . Higher and higher. Until I'm unhealthily thin . Or I die. Either way. Is a win - win . They both should lead. To suicide.

You look all around. For my note . But it's not on paper. It came in form . Of this. You never suspected. That some harmless poetry . Could be the note . It was both a note. And the eyes for you to see. My suffering. And to see. Through my mask of lies. So here's my note. I'll miss you guys.
Why do I try. To talk. They never listen. Or notice. My voice the string. Them the scissors . Cutting my voice off . They would notice me. If I committed. Suicide. It'd be fake. Sorrow, but I would. Be noticed due to my absence. If I were. Bruised and bleeding. Would they notice? Why do I try to talk?

I sit here crying. But when do they see . Anything. I want to be dead. And though I know. I will be gone. It will be as though I never existed. They've had practice . To ignore. My little scum -life. So I sit here crying. Bye. I'm going to jump. And go.

You say. You'd jump . Before choosing . Between Blayne and I. But. I've heard enough lies . To know that you'd choose him. I've known enough fake people. To know a lie .

I sit here . Listening to you snickering . I thought she wouldn't get mixed in with that crowd. She wouldn't stop it . And she knew. They plan it carefully. They don't realize. My eavesdropping. I sit here. Listening to you snickering.

Would people notice. One person missing? My death. No one noticing. The girl is gone. The name not known. Seven attending. Her funeral . She will not be missed.

When I was younger, I too had monsters. But I knew where they were. Mom and Dad would never have found them. They were called my mind.

Some days, I get tired of writing my poems. They never seem to do any good. But I have to stay strong. I have to.

They said I didn't have a reason. But I do. The threats at home. The blame put on me. The way I can't do anything right. The constant loss of love and friends. The invisibility that is me. They won't notice. When I die.