Check it out. The first poems are coming in. What do you think?



Colleen Kennedy, age 15 

The Unknown

I don’t know what’s going to happen next
And that alone makes me scared to death
My hands will eventually start to sweat
I’ll lose my breath
And all the while my heart will be beating fast
I wish I could make this calmness last
 
But not now 
Not again
Inside I’m screaming
Can you hear me?
Am I going crazy?
‘Cause I can’t think clearly
I’m losing control
I feel like letting go
How can I cope?
Tell me 
‘Cause I don’t know
 
Right now just leave me alone
I don’t want your touch 
You can hold me later on
God know’s I’ll need it then
When the after depression starts sinking in
I’ll just wait for these feelings 
To subside 
These tears 
To dry
The  fact they always have 
Brings me hope

Stephanie Faith Sizeland, age 19

Stop the bleeding

As she heads for the book shelf

She apologizes to herself once more

“I’m sorry, I can’t take it anymore.”

She lifts up her book titled “Glass”

“Story of my life” she whispers…

Underneath hides a secret kept from the world

The story of a broken girl.

She picks up the translucent piece

Sharpened edge

Sharper than the rest

In need of one more release.

Glass to skin, she carves

Another scar

One more line to match the rest

Closes her eyes and lets it slide

“This is the last time.” She lies.

As the blood runs, she weeps

Always abides by her one rule

“Never too deep”.

The lines are straight

She holds her arm to the light

Studying the horizontal cuts

Always left to right.

Never does it for attention

Or sympathy from anyone

Does it for herself

Because she feels she has no choice

Not tonight, not ever.

It’s about stopping.

It’s about having the courage to stop.

Having the strength.

Relief is possible without the knife.

Don’t cut your life short.

Make an effort to stop.

Make an effort to get better.

Tell someone you love.

Help someone you know.

Stop the scars.

Stop the bleeding.

C.S., age  15

Some days

All I want is to end it.

End the pain

in my heart and from the blade.

Some days

I don’t feel like I can live.

I cannot breath

I think this is the end now.

Some days

I do not have any hope.

“Look at yourself.

Your goals will end in failure.”

Days like these,

I have to cut myself up

To put things back together.

There is no other way.

But TODAY

I will persevere through it.

I will beat this.

There are ways for me to win.

Today

I will smile.

I will put down the blade.

I will survive.

Today

I will live.

 

Kelcie H., age 13

Captured In Hiding:



When he leaves it’s already black

struggling to breathe but there’s no turning back

i find myself frozen when he turns around

he takes a little step closer

i spin down

hoping it will only be a pound….or two

here he comes closer and closer and

takes his shoe and chucks it at me

i try not to cry as he tosses me around

with not even a doubt

i hear him shoot

something which sounded like a gun

but he gets closer and closer and aims

for what seemed to be me

so here i am straining to breathe, i whisper

no daddy please

but one big bang can do it all

i am getting dizzier and dizzier..

then it all seemed to be……

over.

Nicole Easterwood, age 20

Because We Were Different

I remember when eighty-four pounds

made me feel obese.

And looking in the mirror

was excruciating.

Not being able to see

what Jo saw

and her not being able to see

that the cuts gracing her ankles

were killing me.

Turmoil.

Not believing that people cared.

Not believing that they could see

through translucent skin.

Masquerading through,

jumping at inconspicuous apparitions,

both tangled within a web

positioned in a fool’s paradise.   

“Fucking loser.”

“Fat ass piece

of worthless shit.”

“Ghost.“

“Why

don’t

you

just

die.”

“Robin

is

dead.”

All slashing away

at a heart

that was fighting

not to bleed out.

Remembering the time when I didn’t know

That Jo was cutting,

because someone was abusing her

when they drank to forget.

All of the beer cans she discovered

stored underneath the house,

like no one would ever uncover them.

Dirty little secrets swept under the rug

when they were already written on the walls

and displayed like a painting in a museum. 

The time when I wasn’t honest with her

when I was starving myself

and my skin was fervent.

When depression devoured me

and I couldn’t pull myself from bed.

When I wouldn’t talk

to doctors out of shame.

Feeling guilty for lying to Jo.

Wondering if she knew.

The real reason behind the scars

made into a fairytale

with a happy ending of healing

without risk of madness. 

The times I could hear

voices talking about me.

Being betrayed

by people I trusted.

Putting up with it,

so I wouldn’t have

to sit alone at lunch.

Getting pelted with objects

in bathroom stalls.

Silence.

Loneliness.

The force-field surrounding

everything I loved

being destroyed by meteors.

My mouth numb,

mind howling. 

What would everyone think

if I admitted I was what I was?

What would they think

if they knew the truth?

Fifteen years of age,

high school freshman.

Depressed,

anxiety ridden,

suicidal,

possibly anorexic

and/or bulimic.  

Problems,

problems,

problems solved

by the warm side of a lighter

or blazing heat of a stove eye.

“I’m such a klutz,”

used as a ploy.

Coming home everyday

feeling worse than the last.

Multiple failures, pleading

each would be enough

to be released.  

Because we were different.

Because we couldn’t find

ways to deal.

Because the pain

was too immense.

Time is all we have.

It’s been almost six years.

Ages ago we believed

that healing was nowhere.

Love and light were gone

and there was only one way out.

To feel nothing,

to give into

a twisted minds

hankering.

Now, there is only a vast ocean

swimming with possibilities

and we are digging

our feet into the sand

trudging towards it.  

It’s still there.

And I don’t know

when it’s presence

will fully vacate our chests.

There is always the fight.

We will tussle,

because we are worth it.

Always together,

never apart. 

We will be grateful for this day,

feel the wind hit our cheeks

and sun’s warmth on our backs

and just breathe,

breathe,

breathe.

Shannon Bradley, age 40



Death by volcano takes many forms:

the boy who lived within might fly out and attack,

perform the rituals designed to appease

But she had been asked inside.

She knew searing lava, suffocating mud,

seismic restlessness

She sucked in a breath

She let herself imagine

the expansion of his chest.

Everything’s going to be all right.

Everything’s going to be.

Danielle Alison, age 14

Presence in the Sunset



The beautiful oranges,

reds and yellows.

They form over the

crystal blue waters.

The waves,

calm as the breeze.

The breeze feels nice

in the warm air.

The warm air brushes

upon her face.

She looks to her right

and sees him.

He is walking in the

beautiful horizon.

She cannot see his face,

but knows it is him.

She becomes excited

to see him,

but has to quickly hide

her expression.

Looking back out

to the waters,

She pretends not

to realize his existence.

They are the only two

on the beach.

After a few minutes,

she forgets he is

even there.

The waves start to rise,

splashing at her feet.

The warm waves

are soothing.

She feels a presence,

suddenly remembering

The boy she was

once in love with.

He sits behind her,

wrapping his arms

around her waist,

and kisses her neck.

“I’m so sorry,”

he whispers softly.

“Forgive me?

Take me back?

I’ll make everything

better if you do.”

His voice is hopeful.

Watching the sunset,

and feeling the waves,

who could not forgive him,

for his sweet presence?