Today marks the middle of August, And quite possibly the middle of my life. But how can that be true when I’m only 16? Do I have a disease? Did I get into an accident that shortened my life? Or may it just be because of the people around me. Calling me by a name I don't recognize, Using pronouns I don't want to hear. How come when a peacock shows it’s true colors, It attracts others. But when ever I show mine I am pushed away and forgotten. But that is not all, As I am accompanied by feelings that tear through me. Like bullets being shot through a glass window. How long before my window is broken and all my pieces fall to the floor? How long before there is too many pieces and I am unable to be put back together? How long before I am thrown away without a second thought and forgotten forever? How long before I'm lost for good? My life is like an outlined circle. The circle is complete except I’m in the middle, Where it’s empty and there’s nothing to look at. Everyone else is on it, But no one tries to reach out to pull me back. Where do I go from here? Where does the circle begin and end? I want to get back on the circle, But what if I go the wrong direction and find myself at the end. Envision an ocean, Where the water brushes up against the rocks near the shore. When you look up at the sky you notice it’s missing features. It's shrouded with darkness, Leaving no stars to fill the void. No stars to reveal the right path home. The sky is as empty as the ocean, Except for the one person drowning at the bottom. Everyone worries about different things. Some worry about what they are going to do for a living, Others how they are going to pay their monthly bills. The world has more scars than any human being, As new ones are added each day for meaningless worries. Worries about how your hair looks, Or if your nails look good. Only a few worry about if someone's okay, and if they’re not they give them a hand to hold. But the few that care cannot help the many that are drowning. They can hear when they are whispered to in the dark, But get no response when they shout back for help. My body is conditioned to survive against the world. But how is that possible if I can’t even survive against myself. We each have our own story, And we ourselves, are the author. Except mine is written on pages that are stained and torn, With ink that is darker than the night sky. I sometimes wonder if I will ever stop writing my story, Will I even get half way? How much pain will I be able to tolerate before I break? Or will hope save me from the fate that I thought would never be an option. The hope that reminds me that every story is worth finishing. The hope that when my story is finished it will be remembered. It's been over a year and I still find myself in the water. Unable to move, And unable to breathe. With every gasp for air it is replaced with water, Filling up my lungs so I can no longer speak. I am not drowning because I can't swim, For it is the stones that are tied to my feet.
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