If there is one thing I want,
it is to not be a wasted life.
I want to say I did things for people.
I want to say
that I became a playground for everyone’s
demons,
a place for people to leave what won’t
willingly leave them.
I want to say I explored what shouldn’t be touched.
I want to say
that I have sat in every dark corner of the world and
wrote,
scribbled down enough to guide those that want to
go off road.
I want to say I was something worth something.
I want to say
that what I once created created a purpose,
a purpose fulfilling enough to
keep someone alive.
But,
here I am.
I’m a seventeen year old poet
who writes more about the fallacies in her head
then the ones outside her closed
bedroom door.
I’m a seventeen year old high school student
who’s plan is nothing but a marked up map
that leads to the same dead ends
she’s petrified to hit.
I’m a seventeen year old head case
who is worse off at seventeen then
most people are in a
whole lifetime.
I’m seventeen,
a seemingly empty memory box
to still fill.
I’m seventeen,
experienced in every stage in
three different illnesses.
I’m seventeen,
obsessed with creating the image
my mind concocted.
I’m seventeen,
beginning to turn into my
bed sheets.
I’m seventeen,
now used to how I avoid their eyes
when I’m simply spoken to.
I’m seventeen,
already desiring a full memory box
without actually experiencing it.
I’m seventeen.
Something tells me it shouldn’t be this way.
It seems like I should be
smiling in a school cafeteria,
writing about a sunset.
But instead,
I am looking out a closed window,
telling stories I doubt people
want to hear.
I don’t know what makes a life wasted.
But,
I’m sure not living it counts as that.
I don’t want to waste it,
I know seventeen years too little.
But,
is it wasting life to be
balance-beam ribs and
a trampoline heart?
But,
is it wasting life to be
dust collected in the black crevices
of this world?
But,
is it wasting life to be
nothing more then
someone else’s will to live?
I don’t know,
but,
I intend to find out.