Friday, September 30, 2011

"I don’t need to be the hero."

Carolyn Ursabia, age 28

Tell me how the story ends
I just want to know.
It’s hard to see beyond the moment
when you’re dealt another blow.

Tell me I’m the distressed damsel –
a knight in armour on his way;
The Deus Ex Machina ’round the corner
to materialize and save the day.

I don’t need to be the hero,
or the star that steals the show.
I’m not desperate for attention
when I’m feeling really low.

I need help because I’m cracking
under the pressure of the weight
of every little tiny thing
with which I’ve struggled as of late.

So don’t tell me I can do it.
When what I need’s a helpful hand.
Not just empty, pleasant words
that suggest but don’t mean you understand.

Oh but in the end, I know who’s the hero
The rising star that saves the show.
I asked you how the story ends,
but I guess I damned well know:

I’ll suck it up, and take the hits.
Maybe a couple times I’ll fall.
And when they ask me “How much credit…”
I will say, “I take it all.”

Thursday, September 29, 2011

"I have this power to overcome."

A.M. Young, age 22
Jenkintown, PA

Lonely and abrupt
I sit waiting for the corrupt
The one to take me away
From the simplicities of my day
To complicate things

To manipulate my mind
I climb and I climb.
Out of this depression
I have this lingering confession
That this will be different

I will be no more
From what I was before
Like a flower
I will conquer with a shower
To cleanse my soul

That clean embrace
From my mother’s face
I have this power to overcome
All these things that I have committed and done
That will haunt my thoughts

But won’t bring me down
I no longer hide like a clown
I am a bird, free
I am myself; I am here and I am me

Funny little thing confidence

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

"He has made me promise to not burn myself."

Nicole Easterwood, age 20
Jacksonville, AL

His hands are smooth,
as they touch my skin.
At the beginning of each
of my phalanges
lay thick calluses.
My thumbs,
and sometimes index fingers,
are torn up
and bleed from picking.
I can’t stop.
I’ve tried so many times.
I’ve thought of him
and pleaded with my mind
to stop.
I’ve tried.

His arms are free of scars,
so strong.
I look at mine and am ashamed.
Reminders of cold bathroom floor,
mixing with the flame of a lighter.
So many sleepless nights.
So many days of curtains drawn.
So many panic attacks taking over me.
I’ve tried to be calm.
I’ve tried.
I’ve tried.

No one seems to understand
how it feels to think
that you are alone.
But when his hand brushes mine,
breathing ceases
and I am not thinking
of how I can make it stop.
It culminates and I am fine.
Nothing matters
except simply being.

He has made me promise
to not burn myself.
To stop
inflicting pain.
I promised.
And I will
keep my promise.
Because he’s worth it.
Because I’m scared
to say I love him.
To tell him
he deserves someone
who is well.
To tell him,
“You make me
feel less alone.”