My father doesn’t exist.
At least not to me.
He disappeared years ago when he stopped calling.

You don’t exist.
At least not to me.
You disappeared years ago when you stopped calling.

Fiercely*  I n d e p e n d e n t
I am as stubborn as the Aries Ram
     which just so happens to be my zodiac sign.
I don't care what others might think of me
     but at the same time I live to please.
I've found that I can really only rely on my family
     but my friends care far too much
          far too fleetingly.
I am blunt and will call you out on your *******
     as nicely as possible.
I can't handle tears even when they're my own
     and they always sound like
                                  short
                                                   dying
                                                                ­    gasps
         but that's what they are, right?

It's your lungs and eyes dying because your heart was too dumb to listen to your own brain.
My brain was only trying to look out for me.
I'm not sorry that I've failed it way too many times.

My mind constantly revolves around myself
     because I'm way too proud and vain
          of my way too small accomplishments.
I want to be known as Great
     and I am not ashamed to admit it.
No matter what I do
          be it the purest good or the wickedest bad
               it will be great and jaw dropping.
I am extremely conceited.
     And shallow
          And a hypocrite
               And a liar
And will always keep score
     (By the way as of 2012, I had 37 points and you 34. I'm still winning.)
But I own up to it and will always try to be better.
I am also determined
     And hardworking
          And persistent
Which means that I will get farther than most people.

In 2001 the No Child Left Behind Act was implemented in primary and secondary schools in the USA to ensure exactly what its name says.
But there are always children left behind.
     There are always people left behind
          And I will not be one of them.
And no matter how conceited and full of myself I am
     I will always find your name written in between the lines of my poetry
          whispered with every breath that I take
               crumpled on sheets of paper that I've long since thrown away
                   because every line that I wrote was never good enough for you.

The summer before my senior year
    I tried to isolate myself from my friends and family as much as possible.
Not because I was depressed
     but because I knew that I had to learn how to be happy all by myself.
I love them all to death
     but I know how much it hurts
          when you lose yourself in another person
               so much that you can't find a way out
                    or even a way to heal once you've escaped.

I'm hard to love enough as it is
     so I did it to train myself for the times in life
          when I know that I will be alone.
But I was taught that there's a difference between being alone
     and being lonely
          *so which one are you?

We crossed pinkies and you led me into a house full of rooms that I didn't know.
We saw a rooms full of old clothes
A room of people with dogs and cats everywhere
A room where I laid my head in your lap and stroked your leg while you played with my hair.
A room where we sat down and I realized that I couldn't go through with it; couldn't go through with us
So I ran into the next room where there was a garden and at first it seemed nice, but with every step that I took the garden died and left me without air to breathe.
And then you pulled me out, into the last room where you held me in your arms nd danced me around the room until I realized that I wasn't gasping for air anymore.
You held me close and we walked out together.

Sometimes I sit and wonder what people say about me when I'm not there.
Am I the bad friend?
Am I the one that everyone regrets meeting?
The way that you avoid me makes me think that I am.

What did I do wrong?
I'm there when people need me, but that's just the thing;
I'm only there when people need me.
I make Mr. Cellophane look like the elephant in the room.

See, I just don't get it.
I know that this sounds selfish, but when will somebody finally start to care about me?
When will the time come that I don't have to message first and then not even get a reply?
God, not even my "best friends" talk to me on  daily basis.
Or even a weekly basis.

I'm like a public water fountain.
People are glad when they see me, but it's not like I'm their first choice
They were probably too broke to afford a better choice.
I am a placeholder.
I am temporary.
I will never make the final cut, but do you remember when you said that you would always have time for me?
Well you and I must have different definitions of the word "always" because time is up and wow, it went so fast.

So the next time that you complain about having no friends, I want you to remember how I was there.
Me, the nonexistent friend; I was always there to pick you up when you needed it and even when you didn't.

I want you to remember every 2 AM conversation,
Every fear that you told me,
Every deep, dark, secret desire,
Every ******* lie that you uttered.
I want you to remember how you pushed me away; how I came back the first couple of times it happened, but this time I won't.

I won't be your ego boost and I refuse to satisfy your sadistic need for attention because I am not the bad friend.
I have never been and never will be.
And maybe I'm thinking too much or maybe I'm not.
Maybe this is all true or not
And maybe one day I'll have the courage to tell you this to your face.

But sometimes I sit and wonder what you say about me when I'm not there.
Am I the good friend?
*Am I  the one that you regret meeting?

I'm not asking you to trust me
because I don't know what kind of mistakes I'll make in life

I'm asking you to love me in spite of those mistakes
because God knows that I've done the same with you.

Why is it that love and suffering makes poets of us all?

When suffering,
we are told to get rid of what makes us feel so horrid
and we do,
but hold onto the memory for its sheer poetic beauty

And love?
Love *****.
It's a whirlwind of emotions that you can't exactly pinpoint
and even though I am guilty as well,
I have yet to understand why we would want to subject ourselves to the pain of writing it all down,
of immortalizing it.

Why is that love and suffering makes poets of us all?