my personal essays

entry three

 over the past three or so years plenty of teachers, classmates, friends, and family have said my name is going to be in a bookstore one day. the only sole, original place my writing comes from is my heart. i guess that's not the best thing to say since my heart is fucking shit just like (almost) everything else in my life. i write about my thoughts, emotions, and deepest desires. although, my writing does not just concern myself though. it shows the thoughts, emotions, and deepest desires of others who can't express them. i try to give the truth and only the truth. i've seen life has affected my writing in every way and form, and i'm not exactly sure how to feel about it. i get scared at some moments worrying if i used the wrong word. (how would this make others feel and look at me?) no, i only write what i can, what i feel needs to be heard. this is how i live, through my writing. some are of conversations i'll never get to have and some are conversations, i think when i was writing them, someone was listening. i want everyone to know sometimes things aren't just "i'm fine." and "it's okay." (even if the person says so), but I think that's okay that everything isn't okay. think about it for a second. if everyone was okay all the time, all the way back to before Christ, and someone slipped into the hands of the ruler of this earth and they began to crush them. what would we do? that's the thing, we wouldn't know what to do because all our lives we hid behind drawn curtains so not a soul could see in, or closed our bedroom doors when we needed to let all our pain flow from our wrists, then we clothed ourselves in long shameful sleeves to hide the pain. the following sunrise we just sat in bed and didn't go school that day because it didn't fucking feel worth it anymore. even with all this screaming silence we say "it's okay." you can say that now all you want, but when you see that big red light and hear those blaring sirens don't tell me "it's okay". when you go to their funeral on that second sunday in november don't say "it's okay". especially when you find them foaming at the mouth with empty pill bottles astray or see their bloody wounds that read "i cut myself to death today." do not fucking say it's okay, until it is. until we start to prevent instead of react to these cries of help it will never be okay.