Young Writers Society

Keeping to myself is hard,
especially now God chose your life as a discard.
What happened to happy,
what happened to you and me?
After you slipped away from me,
why couldn't the others see?
There was nothing left of you,
not even a memory.
Even I couldn't see it at the start either,
but I knew your unhappiness went much deeper.
The hate you raised seemed to be from hell itself,
I knew you couldn't stop yourself.
And who was I,
to tell you why you shouldn't die?
Who was I to tell you to live your life,
who was I to tell you you had a life?
But why would you cause so much pain,
if you knew it would cause others to cry out in vain?
Did you know they would walk in on the horrible sight,
of all that was left of you such a fright.
Or did you know that the redness,
could never be cleansed of us?
Unable to cry,
because the last thing we wanted was for you to die.
All the questions of why screaming inside,
all I want to do is run and hide.
To come back to see that nothing actually happened,
and all the horror I had imagined.