Badges -SLAM POETRY

Failure.
Seven letters perfectly construed to describe my very existence. 
Misunderstood.
Four syllables that boom in my ears, deafening the good thoughts
that are now few and far between.

I try to reach out for help, but my efforts don't seem to be enough.
My cries for help never fail to fall on deaf ears, blind eyes.

"You'll need to go back to the hospital to get help," says a man in a 
checkered shirt, proudly wearing a badge that reads YOUTH SUPPORT
WORKER.
"We can't help you here."

Is that what youth support is? Telling me to go back to the very man that may
as well had tied a noose and handed it to me? His words coated in venom,
protected by his badge that read HEAD OF PSYCHOLOGY. 

Misunderstood.
The parents that created me bear no help with the darkness clouding my thoughts.
Lazy, self-absorbed, selfish, manipulative.
My sincerest apologies--it's seems to be quite easy to become this way when
all you can think about is leaving everything behind.

My soul is hungry for love, but my thoughts are starving for control.

Failure to keep a job.
Failure to maintain relationships.
Failure to get out of bed.
Failure to explain.
Failure to you,
Failure to me.

"Is this what you're going to do everytime you get a job?" 
You mean have a mental breakdown when my crippling depression and
overwhelming suicidal thoughts start taking me over? Yes.

I need help, real help.
But I don't know where to get it.
I either get yelled at, ridiculed, laughed at, or turned away like a girl scout
trying to sell her cookies to earn a badge.
A badge of acceptance and normality. 

Five youth suicides in Woodstock since January.
What if there were six?
If I took my life tonight, what would people say about me?

Would they lie and say that my smile was infectious?
Would they fabricate my existence and mention how kind, sweet, and genuine
I was?

Would people I haven't talked to in years post old photos of us, telling their
887 friends on FaceBook that they will always miss me?

And after three days of people who never cared to get to know me are finished
posting their statuses acknowledging my death, would I be forgotten about? 

Would my legacy be nothing more than becoming apart of a statistic on
Canada.gov? 
Because I surely wouldn't be remembered for anything else.
They only thing left behind would be dreams I failed to accomplish, broken
friendships, and the realization that nothing lasts forever. 

Failure.
Seven letters perfectly construed to describe my very existence. 
Misunderstood. 
Four syllables that boomed in my ears and deafened the good thoughts that
were few and far between.

I tried to reach out for help, but my efforts didn't seem to be enough.
My cries for help never failed to fall on deaf ears, blind eyes. 

This poem is about: 
Me
My community

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