Young Writers Society

I’m not underground
Yet
And you don’t seem to understand
That it hurts too much to talk about it
I’m not innocent
I would be dead by now if I was

I haven’t been as scarred as much as others
So scarred that you can’t see them
But I have watched
And haven’t stopped
The razor blades
And undone belt buckles

Chinese food on Sunday nights
Murders my sense of perspective
On death
Time goes too fast for me nowadays
I’m living a dying image of truth
But that’s okay
Because I still take down my Christmas lights

I’m possessive
And I won’t help you
I’ll keep you in my own private heart
Of memories
Of suicides
And tales
Untold and undone
To the point of saddened fabric

Daydreaming
And handing out wine glasses
And beers
To you and your friends
I’ve crushed a few glasses between my fingers
And when I throw out the glass
It pokes holes in the garbage bag

One day you’ll be taking out the garbage with me
Then I want to see you complain about the smell
One day you’ll be hugging
A diary to God late at night
When the radio has seemingly run out of good songs to play

This keeps me in cheer
I’d hate to be bitter
But I really am
I never accomplished dreams
And don’t think I don’t have time to dream them
But I watch you guys sit around and ruin your lives
Given second and third chances
Taken them all to advantage of your own
Trashed like broken wine glasses
Shot glasses, on good days

Why can’t the garbage man have a second try?
I’ve learned my lesson, Christ Almighty
But why can’t you?

I’m not underground yet
I’m just buried under
Ten feet of broken glass
And candy wrappers
You and your friends make
On Saturday nights
I know your lives
I know your light
And I know you fight
Because I’m the one that makes you fail every time

What if one day I didn’t throw away that broken glass?