Last Poem

Last Poem

I speak without any words,
I glare at you from my prison of notebook paper,
just a poem someone scribbled down
instead of listening in class.
I am full of the dreams and hopes
of someone just like you,
who feels the strength of depression as well
and wishes they were someone else.
I see her blood-stained hands,
I know her guilt.
I have felt her tears as they fell,
staining my pages with guilt and deceptions.
I know how she felt when she penned me,
after fights and screaming,
when she felt she could not go on.
And therefore was I born,
to bring you the news I do not wish to carry,
that my author is not coming home tonight.
She has wasted away her precious childhood,
has brought herself an end in the blackness.
As she wrote me, she wept,
pressed the barrel to her ear, signed me
goodbye cruel world and tell them I cared.
And now I lay here, coated with the blood
of a young girl who should have been appreciated
enough to be shown some kind of love.
Instead she was left with comfort from her blades,
the warm flow from her veins,
scars that she hid away with lies and long sleeves.
And tonight the edge was reached and she went over,
with a single shot and a piercing cry,
leaving her legacy in a set of words
to let you know
that she was not invisible.