It was easy.

It was so fucking easy,

To fly away in your pipe every night.

It was so easy to forget yourself,

To live in an artificial world of euphoria,

To mask the rot of your mind by the sweet rush of adrenaline.

To turn the your empty pit you call your soul,

Into a bottomless abyss.

You fell,

And you thought would never hit the ground.

But you did.

You failed so many times.

You failed so many fucking times.

Your body shaked as it recovered,

The wounds in your mouth began to heal,

You began to rebuild.

You began to fill the pit, slab by slab,

Life too heavy for you to lift by yourself.

Your will wasn't stronger than your sadness.

You couldn’t live in the real world,

You couldn’t face the real you.

You pushed yourself into the shallow hole of your past.

Crashed on the bitter surface of who you were.

It was hard.

It was so fucking hard.

So many looks that nauseated,

So much unrighteous pity.

So much withdrawal and pain.

You prayed to die.

Until your hands were held by something stronger than the grasp of narcotics,

by the grace of someone who believes.

Your mind throbbed forgein, yet familiar thoughts .

Your body begain to forgive itself, and heal from the inside out.

Your were stronger than you thought possible.

Slowly, the emptiness was transformed into a peculiar fullness,

Scar tissue never to fully heal, but to remind,

The world you left behind.

There was no place left to fall.

You have won.

I missed the last train home.

I see nothing but a yellow line

that must never be crossed,

Taunting me.

Laughing at me.

Disturbed by brass against pavement.

A penny for my thoughts isn’t enough.

The streets don’t pay much.

I can no longer feel the neighbours.

Seen things you couldn't make up

But now I see yellow.

The yellow.

Like the colour of the past.

The flowers in the garden

That stared into the sun.

The happy flowers,

I used to help mother water.

The yellow is as red as a stoplight

That killed her.

Now I understand.

How easy it is to confuse.

The yellow is the brighest green.

And I must go.

The floor is shaking.

I hear the last train home.

Now is the time.

I wish I could smile

without feeling like a liar.

My lips do not shape the half crescent moon you see in the array of stars,

without a treacherous amount of convincing.

A mixture of guilt and regret brew,

curling my mouth into a heartless abyss

that can never be genuine.

I wish I could be proud of my accomplishments,

rather than loath myself for everything i am not.

I wish my heart would pulse pride through my veins every time i breath,

Because breathing is a sign of life,

A signification that I am still here today.

That is something to be proud of.

I wish I could see that i am,

the truth within the definition of success.

I would trade all my possessions,

and everything I have ever been,

for an un-cracked mirror if acceptance.

I wish I could understand,

that I am my own definition of beautiful.

She stands alone.

Drowning in a sea of superficial acceptance,

With a deafening undertone of regret.

How far can she bend?

Until she fractures her domain.

She defined her own sense of failure,

Success is a word burned from her skull.

She stands alone.

Loved,

By everything she is,

Yet in love,

With everything she’s not.

She doesn’t see her reflection,

As the realm sees her blessing.

She stands alone.

A creation of her own,

Suffocated by a world,

Of isolated standards.

Happiness,

An impossible feat.

She stands alone.

Grasping on the arms of others,

Praying to save falter.

Flicked wrists keep her down.

She stands alone.

If you cry out for help,

And the world decides not to listen,

Do you make a sound?

She is gone.

Success.

It is the force that will drive us through the jagged paths of life,

and navigate us through the unpredictable twists and turns.

Success is what fills our lives with significance.

However,

What is the definition of success?

Ever since we were children,

we were asked what we wanted to be.

Our parents laughed at the ideas we had,

and lectured us until the message that money equals ecstasy

became implanted in our minds.

Our passions were replaced by the hunger for paychecks,

and our dreams morphed into elapsed memories.

Success became a feat unreachable by the poor man.

And we yearned to achieve the concept of success.

But what if success meant more.

Beyond than price tags and purchases.

What if success was deeper than the superficial realms of greed.

What if the definition of success began with the word love.

What if affection surpassed wealth,

and compassion conquered possessions.

What if your worth wasn't measured in dollars,

But in the number lives that you have touched.

Money cannot warm a dying soul,

yet a smile will melt a heart.

Let passion control your actions.

Let love define your meaning.

We are stronger than the yellow chains of greed.

We can prove our significance without a bank.

Our society needs change.

and our world needs kindness.

Success can be beautiful.

True beauty.

A concept much deeper,

stronger,

then the realms of superficial attractiveness.

It is not one you can see,

or touch,

But it is a sensation you can feel,

in your soul,

in your heart.

When I feel suffocated in this world of insensitivity, writing is my outlet. The Prose is the lone place where I can freely depict, analyze, and allocate the tangle of thoughts that lace through my brain.

Writing gives me purpose. Words are what make me feel an undesirable from of beautiful. Literature expresses my emotions with more accurately than anything else in this world. Being able to create complex pieces of art using only the English language is incredible. I will not let my age demarcate the how I am viewed by society.

The realm of Prose has changed my life. I am constantly learning how to improve my writing from amazing, talented authors. Authors who care about your success, and will provide you with advice vital for growing as a poet.

The pleasure of letting ideas flow through my body, and drip though my fingertips is what motivated me to begin writing. I hope to mark my page until the world is inspired. I can only hope that my pen will not run out of ink.