A Poem

I used to be good at this.

I’d open a blank sheet of paper and my thoughts would tumble onto the page, into neat little stanzas.

I used to be depressed.

My sadness would dig into my brain and pull out similes, metaphors and amazing alliterations.

I used to think about death. All of the time.

Death would push me to write what I could not say.
Death crept around the crevices of my soul, and consumed the paper as I sat.

I used to hope writing would take away all of my pain.

My poetry was beautiful and haunting, detailing a teenagers suicidal thoughts.

I realized I had to find my own happiness.

And it wouldn’t be on a page, where I contemplated all of the issues that made me that way.


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