When they ask me what I am afraid of,
"I suppose it will all make sense when we grow up."
I'm a sixteen year old kid living on the gray side of Oregon. I don't consider myself to be a poet, writer, or artist; my poems are just my method of self expression. I rarely write with a focus on word choice, rhythm, rhyming, or style. I prefer to just let it all flow. In my writings you will find raw emotion and and see a little bit of what my version of today is.
"Calvin: Look, a dead bird!
Hobbes: It must've hit a window.
Calvin: Isn't it beautiful? It's so delicate. Sighhh... once it's too late, you appreciate what a miracle life is. You realize that nature is ruthless and our existence is very fragile, temporary, and precious. But to go on with your daily affairs, you can't really think about that...which is probably why everyone takes the world for granted and why we act so thoughtlessly. It's very confusing. I suppose it will all make sense when we grow up.
Hobbes: No doubt.”
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Fighting Through Anxiety
Dear Anxiety,Featured Shared Story
February 14, 2018 I landed myself in the hospital after I took 30 pain killers. I was in the hospital for 3 days and then I was transferred to a behavior ward with all other problem children....
Poems by Olmali
Quotes by Olmali
So this really hit me. Every day of freshman year the only way I made it was by telling myself I could kill myself the next day. I told myself nothing mattered, seeing as I would be dead by December anyways. I set a date, November 15, 2016, to do it. And I remember nothing from that day. According to my attendance records I was absent from school that day (presumably faked being sick), but I have no recollection of any of it. It makes me really wonder what happened. I am in recovery, but sometimes bad thoughts come back. I haven't purged, cut, or burned myself or tried to break any bones as of May 2018.
I have struggled with self-harm for years. I now consider myself to be in recovery, as I haven't cut or burned myself intentionally for a little over 4 months. I am reminded every day of what I overcame by the scars on my body, and sometimes, in all honesty, I hate them. I feel like they make me different and marked as someone who is “bad,” but I know absolutely none of this is true. Scars show where you've been, not where you're going, and just because I wear some of my past on the outside doesn't make me different. This poem was empowering to me. Thank you.