The heart of a poet

Can't be sent

I need help that can't be sent
Because to me even though it's hard to believe think that well, cuts look kinda aesthetic
And no the ones I have weren't because of this aesthetic
I guess just seeing so many made them pretty in my eyes
The help I need is more than a talk more than being smothered so I don't let out screams for help
I've talked to many, and yet no words are different
Only few can urge me to change
It was you that made me stop cutting everyday
Now it's you that's gone as well
Why does happiness get taken away?
When will I be deemed a lost cause?
When will the voice in my head stop saying, just one more?
When will, he, whom into trying to avoid finally notice me...and well ah try and start a conversation with me?
Or will he?
When will my mind not think about not being alive when I sit in silence in these classrooms trying not to cry?
Trying not cry about the things that hurt me on repeat every day
Crying about the people I cared for that now have gone away
And if it's true that you reap what you sow when will those who hurt me and so many others get what's coming?
Also, if pain is beauty I guess it makes sense that I'm so kind
But if pain is beauty how come all I see of me on the outside is what I lack, the things I wish I had?
And how can I get people to understand that well, yes, I am outgoing I'm far from self assured
Well cause actually I'm just insecure