If they knew what happened yesterday
What would they say?
What would she say to her man
If everything went according to the plan?

If she knew the pain i feel
Would she still think it's not real?
Would she regret the things he had done?
If after all of this, i will be gone.

Lost in addictions
And my own sorrow
My whole life a fiction,
With no tomorrow.

I write this words for me to remember
That i was once a child as well.
About what happened this December
And that i went through hell.

I'm sorry.
For being a failure,
Not helping you enough,
Not knowing when i should help you.
I'm sorry for the things i said,
Did,
For what i put you through.
I'm sorry
For being sorry.

I'm sorry, mother
For being a failure.

I'm sorry, mother,
For leaving you.

I'm sorry, mother,
For not being the perfect child you wished i was.

I'm sorry, mother,
For giving up at such a young age.

I'm sorry, mother,
For not being you.

(again, if this gets taken down it's fine)

So.. Idk if this can be called a rant, im kinda just explaining some stuff. School is really too much rn, im failing literally everything. Then there's some personal stuff, but that's not important cuz that's just mental health stuff. I tried to stay for longer, but i genuinely can't anymore. Because of this, i will be taking a break for a while. I'm fine, really, i just need some time to think about stuff. I know no one cares, but idk it just felt rude to leave without an explanation. Anyway, I'll come back as soon as i can, I'm sorry.

Leaving the house,
The memories,
Pain and happiness.
The child that used to live there.

Sometimes you leave too soon,
Sometimes you just have to.
For the good of the other people
Still locked inside.

You can't help but worry about them,
But you can't change anytning,
Now that you left.
But it is what you wanted, is it not?

You thought leaving the house would help you
But it only made it worse.
You have the life you wanted,
But at what cost?

Written by tge hands if pain,
Thr decaying corpse of your being,
The kind that makes you wonder
Why you weren't enough.

When he was little he promised his mommy:
"I won't be like daddy, i swear!"
But promises are often broken
Especially when the person who made it, is broken too

He tried to keep his promise
But he failed.
He failed at everything.
A failure.
Ironic, isn't it?

The little boy turned into a young man
14 years old is a big boy after all
And the little boy slowly began dissapearing.
His mommy didn't like his changes
But he couldn't help himself

Why be a lawyer when you can
Rot in bed reading psychology?
Write poems, losing yourself in your own world?
Become an actor?

But he broke the promise.
Became so fake, being an actor wasn't a problem at all.
He lost the little boy he was before.
But he was still there.

Today, he says "i'm sorry".
But it's too late.
The little boy is dead.

Once upon a time there was a group of birds
They had traditions and very strict rules
They all lived in a tree and never left it
Because if one flew away, they would be seen as a freak

There was one little bird
At first he seemed to be like the others
But in reality, he had a dream
He wanted to escape the tree

He told his mommy about it but she scolded him,
Saying he should stay here as this is as it's supposed to be.
The little bird got sad but had to obey the rules
Over time he got older

The other birds liked him a lot
But one day he declared that he's leaving and no one can stop him.
In that moment, the birds forgot about his good qualities, talents
And started hating him

The little bird started to get bullied
Mocked
He just wanted to dissapear
He regretted his words

Months passed and it was time,
The day he was supposed to fly away
But the little bird wasn't there to experience his new found freedom
The other birds pushed him over the edge way too soon.

I know that i'm here,
What i do or say,
But i don't know how or why.

I see through my eyes,
But as a completely different person,
Often not controlling myself.
Almost like living on autopilot.

Imagine a little child
Wandering through the streets all alone,
With nothing but a tiny backpack
And a toy in their hand.

No one stops to ask if they're okay,
No one wants to look at them,
Most people don't even aknowledge them.

And they only care
When the child gets hit by a car,
Dissapears from existence.
To never be seen again.

I could never write those.
A type of art so sweet for the soul,
Yet so hard to master and understand.
A poem written by the heart,
The hand only being a
Tool for it to communicate.
Trying to explain
Something no one truly knows.

It was once clean
Filled with clear rain water
Mirroring your reflection
People not noticing its beauty
Stomped on it

Corrupted it with their shoes
The clear puddle was now brown
And *****
Small children wanted to play with it
But their mothers refused, as it was too filthy

But weren't they the reason the puddle was *****?
The children haven't done anything wrong
Yet they blame someone else
For what they have not done

And the puddle was left alone
Sad
With no one to admire it
And slowly but surely
It evaporated
Only to be replaced over and over again

I wrote your name on my wrist,
All the things that we have lost,
I hated seeing you like this,
Depression gone, but at what cost?

I wrote your name on my wrist,
Only to slice right through,
You were on top of the list
Yet you never had a clue.

I wrote your name on my wrist,
Knowing it wouldn't last,
But i rewrite it sometimes,
Not letting go of the past.

I
Am
Bad
With
Stuff
Barely
Showing
The way i am
Explainin'
Them and i am
Seeing that i
Don't belong to
This world for
The current age

Yall i found my old notebook with some poems i wrote when i was like 12-13, should i post them here? Perhaps make a collection? Let me know what you think in the comments

Maybe it's reality
Or maybe i'm just weak
I have no reason to paint pernament lines on my wrists, do i?
Other children work too, don't they?

That were the words of my dear mother
Who lulled me into sleep with pain
Pain caused by her boyfriend who despised me almost as much
As my differences

My house is not normal enough to be good
But not bad enough to be normal
At least that's what i was forced to believe since the
oh so perfect age of ten

A minute, a day
Takes another life away.
Showing the truth
Through obvious lies,
A poem is written,
The writer dies.

Following the path
Written ahead
Not realizing
It's all in my head.

A soul broken into pieces,
And given an ability to write in return.
As "compensation".
To make people relate,
Getting the tiniest bit of happiness
From their work
While dying slowly.

You can't force it on yourself.
The words come by themselves,
In the most random moment,
To help you
Or doom you.
They have their own will.
A sudden wave of inspiration,
On a train, bus, school,
But when you want to write,
It tells you you're not ready.

Dziecinna zabawa w kota i myszkę
O życie.
Jak uciekanie po kątach
Zamkniętej przestrzeni,
Mając nadzieję na wydostanie się
Poza niezniszczalne ściany.
I zakończenie,
Groźba i obietnica.
"Nie mów nikomu, wiesz co się stanie".

The punishment,
Mental torture turning into thin red lines.
There's no one to punish me anymore,
So who should?
I look around
And see
Me.

In every class,
Every place,
There is a child that's oddly quiet.
As the child grows up, they begin to change,
Growing more and more distant from reality.

They sit there emotionlessly,
Living their dream life in their own universe.
It's quite sad others can't see it.

Sometimes, imagination dissapears along with childhood innocence.
A child that can't play is no longer a child.
Some children are smarter than adults
That's why people belittle them.
They can't stand the thought of someone being superior to them.

Be a child as long as you can.
You'll regret it if you don't.

Hands working to get the supplies
For their master.
Used, exploited.
For other people's comfort.

They breathe the same air
As the "masters"
But are shamed for it.
For wasting the oxygen
The "master" needs.

Scars fading away,
Along with the memories
Of the hurt and decay,
The endless stories,
Coming back fresh,
Regaining their life on paper,
Carving into the flesh,
Disappearing later.