Young Writers Society

I do not walk down the same streets as you

My personality is not the same, nor the way in which I grew

Who are you? You walk streets, you sing songs, you get grades- fascinating

You cry and whimper and whine in failure as you live life simply surviving

Now let me tell you who I am, I believe emotions are not a mirage of the brain, but a furnace of my 

           heart

I live life trying hard to hide that on the inside, I’m falling apart 

I am smiling, yes; some people say smiling depression comes with my disorder

And while I struggle to stay who I am, I wage wars in the darkest of corners. 

While you see me as antisocial, all I am doing is protecting who my friends love

Cause my feelings are stumbling on each other and my heart is a burning stove

Feeling so empty, so unloved; and yet struggling to be who I am

And yet when I have grades way below, you’d act as if our friendship was a scam

But who the fuck are you?! Some person thinking her life is good grades and perfection?!

Have you seen the shocking sadness in the faces you first see as some ugly abomination?

I hope you die- no, actually; stay alive so we never meet in hell

Does pain gives you a hint? Does suicide ring a bell? 

So many times I have wandered these grounds, almost daily

And yet it seems I’ll always fall into your “loser” category

You ask who is Ally, I’ll tell you who she is, alright

She is the only one so far who cares who I cry upon at night

A soulmate, if your prefer. Closer to me than people I’ve known forever

She told me I was a legend, when an old friendship said I was but advice giver

I’ve never seen her face, and who cares; she’ll never get to see my pain

She’ll never have the chance you had to see my habit of weeping in the rain.

You’ve known me, walked with me jested, talked and laughed with me

And yet whenever you’ll feel the urge, you’ll just leave me crippled and then flee

I’m not even sure if I love you. Some of my personalities do, some don’t 

Some would rather stick a knife in your guts each day per month

I’ve always wondered about the touch of death, slick hands, or icy cold fingers

Do you know, person-who-lives-on-numbers, how much time this thought I have endured

But no you don’t. You can’t, you won’t. There’s only you all around, and you’re stuck in your 

          mirror

You know why no one will see you as their bestie? That’s because you’re plastic, and grades is

         all you hear

It’s said the music you listen to is what shapes your vision of life. Then I wonder what kind of 

         garbage, you must be listening to

I talk of life.. do you even have one? You pathetic incest of hate overdue

What can I say else you’re rotten on the inside and my admiration is all but higher

Except that your words can’t hurt me anymore, since I have the one you made me repress so much;

           and you’ve got your fucking mirror.