the past few hours I've been on a high
no i haven't drunk or took drugs
just hearing the fact that you openly told people about me
although there was that voice who screamed
it's a lie...
"why would anyone like you"

i got distracted by the ten million other thoughts whizzing in my mind all at once
the feeling of I'm going to throw up
the moment of i cant eat
the moment of pure happiness
but how could that be
how did you manage to do that ?

i want to know
so I'm going to find out
how you may ask

i have changed
I'm now taking risks and doing things i would never ever ever wanted to imagine doing what is about to come

this moment is the rarest of them all
this moment is one i hope i will never forget
no matter what happens
no matter how things work out

however that mean voice of doubt is screaming
he only likes you of you're looks and you have none
you're the ugly girl that is used for practice

am i actually going through with this ?

- from my heart etched with your name

Silence, Silence, silence.
I give it to people, but I can never take it.

My ears ache for every single second I spend it alone.
The faint buzz, the faint ring of the feeling of loneliness ... with a slight hint of hope.

I fill the silence with music.
But the hole in my heart isn't filled for the silence pierces me.

My heart is punctured and your name is etched upon it,
As if you're Van Gogh signing his starry night sky.

My night stars that once were, burn out as you do and just remain a memory.

The difference between van gogh's work compared to yours
Is people gaze upon his pieces filled with curiosity, admiration as well as inspiration.
Unlike yours, filled with spite, rejection and distance.

Van gogh used a canvas ; you used my heart
He used paint and charcoal ; you used my time and left me in the silence.

I think too far ahead of myself, I know.
Every time I decide to work on this, I stop.
Purely because you break the silence.

I fall back in.
It's the cycle.
One I hate.
But I just don't know how to break.

 
- from my heart etched with your name

I'm a pen.

Think of me as a pen.

A pen that has lost its lid, as I have lost my mind.
A pen that no serves no purpose as I serve nothing in life.
A pen that is no longer needed or even chewed .
A pen that isn't important.
A pen that just can't be used.

Why am I a pen?

Well because, it just hit me.
Not a pen the thing that technically I felt a week back.
The realisation and the reality, that I'm not that important.
I'm not that important to people as I think I am.

It was so stupid of me to ever believe that I would cross anyone's mind during the day.
That it could place a smile upon their face.
I must apologise.

To myself of course...

For thinking that:
 'If I'm not important to myself I must be important to someone else'.

Why did I ever think that ?
Why was that ever a thing?

The hairs on my arms stood up and my ears were beginning to ring.
My face emotionless as warm salty tears slowly ran down my cheeks.
My body scrunched up as I sat in silence, visioning their fun constantly telling myself that I was never number one.

Why was I crying?
Why does it hurt ?
In the back of my mind I always knew this.
My heart was beginning to burn.

I'm a fool for thinking this.
A fool for doubting that it was true.
Just because people are important to me doesn't mean I'm important to them.
This is something I'm learning to come to terms with.

It's like removing the ink from a pen.
It is empty and most times transparent.

So therefore I am a pen.
A broken, useless pen.
Waiting for the day my ink is refilled again.