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It's times like today when I want to fucking die. I'm so tired of everything, it hurts. Every time I wake up I am in pain for no reason other than the fact that people have made me that way. I did not choose this. I do not want this. I am so tired of this. I'm so, so tired. Please, let me rest for a while.

I don't want to go to sleep tonight.
Because then I'll have to wake up.
I don't want to wake up.

And while I stay awake, here's a fucking poem:

Traces of your laugh are within my helpless reach, taunting me.
I hate you.
You caused this pain I feel so fiercly
You are the flames that burn my skin
I open up to you
Your blades cut me deep
I sing to you
You drown me so many times
But you don't let me sink.
I fall against the heat of your hell
You catch me with cancerous hands
And yet I beg you to stay
Because I don't want to be alone.
And yet when I'm with you
I'm the loneliest I've ever been.
How fucking unfair is this world
To place you so neatly in my life.
I hate you
I hate you
I hate you
I hate you
I hate you
I hate myself more.
Please, just let me fall
I don't want to wake up in the morning
I'm far too tired.

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I write quite a lot of poetry, I'm not sure why. But my friends all think it's amazing, they even asked me to print them copies- saying that they related so much. I didn't want my friends to relate to my poetry. My poetry is mostly dark. As are most of the things I write about, but what can you expect from a person that's merely surviving - you think cavemen started out with torches?

The first poem someone asked me to make a copy of for them didn't have a name, it was titled with a dash. The poem read:

Burning home and broken glass
Knees bleeding on the turned-ash carpets
Feet being torn as they ran down stairs
Screaming and shouting for things to go faster
Yelling and crying for help during this disaster.

And I just lie there
Entangled within flames
Tears falling solemnly down my face
I didn't try to run
I didn't want that choice
And now there's one less screaming voice.

And my friend loved it because it reminded them of a "dream they had". That was almost a year ago now, and my poetry has gotten darker and darker as the time went by. But although I felt discomfort in the fact my friends understood, I didn't like the idea of them being unhappy no matter how clear it was, I still felt comforted by the fact that they had something that they could relate to. That they no longer felt like such an anomaly within society.

But even though most of my poetry is dark, I have written about love on many occasions. Not that I've ever felt the emotion. But poetry is a way of expression, and even though love is a black dot for me, I still find myself longing for it. As you will know from a previous piece of writing I made on padelt called 'sometimes flowers don't bloom' if you read it.

My poetry reflects my feelings in the moment, I write about when I'm feeling low and when I'm feeling higher. But recently it's been pretty low.

My most recent poem 'Scatter' :

Traces of poetry
Littered with scars
All crowded within a room

The desk is missing a leg
The shelf - empty of books
And there's not a poet in sight

Forgotten drafts of suicide notes
The letters 'tw' written at the top
Poems left without a poet

I think that's poetry within itself.

I don't think that poem is hard to decipher the meaning behind. And I hoped I conveyed the emptiness I felt, the broken side of me that's left untouched, and the poetry I leave scattered within my head- alongside notes I've pre-prepared. 'poems left without a poet'. You can infer from the poem that I am not okay. And I haven't been for a long time.

But I have writing to keep me sane. I'm just hoping for better days.

So please, indulge me within your mind and try to write a poem relevant to you. You can send it to me via Instagram if you would like, my username is 'Noah_Foster_poetry'. Or you can keep it to yourself, that's fine too. I just hope that poetry causes some help for you, even if only temporary.

I love you all <3

- Noah Foster

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I watched the people around me grow and love; they reached for the sun, and then they left. I was left behind, watching them slowly disappear from my life. Taking with them my hope of being beside them until thier life is plucked. I never reached the sun.

I grew up around love, my friends all had somebody, I would see hands being held in the corridors, hidden smiles shared across the room, I would see my friends screen shots from conversations with thier partners, I would attend school dances - where everyone had a partner... But me. I just sat and watched as they fell in love. Just stuck wondering 'why is that not me?'

I thought something was wrong with me. And, well, maybe there is.

Even my parents were constantly in love, showing thier affection for eachother in so many ways. Dancing under the stars in the garden as I stared out of my window, a solemn smile on my face.

Love. It's so beautiful, but it never seemed to be mine. I fell into it without having anyone to catch me.

And then my friends began to bloom. One by one they had experienced a feeling that I felt I would never get. And in turn, they bloomed. Their petals formed perfectly, they loved so maturely. And I stayed enclosed within a shell of decaying green. I felt so left behind.

But then I though, 'what if I never bloom?', and it was terrifying. I wanted to feel love and I wanted to fall and be caught. I wanted to dance with someone under the stars. I wanted to hold hands with someone, hold someone until they kissed my head goodnight. I wanted to message someome thay I loved them, without feeling ashamed and guilty for lying. I wanted all of that. The thought of never getting that scared me so much I cried, hoping my tears would water my unmoving roots. They never did.

And then I realised, sometimes flowers don't bloom. And that's okay. You don't have to bloom to enjoy life, and even if you never reach what you wanted, you held onto the wish that you had it. You held on. And maybe along the way, you realised the beauty of everything, and maybe you realised the importance of nothing. The absence of everything. The loss of yourself. And that's okay too.

Trust me. It's okay to not bloom. I'll stay on the ground with you, I'll hold your hand and dance with you under the stars, even if it's only for a night. And I will hold onto to hope of loving, but I will cherish the thought of living. And we will live like the flowers that bloomed.

We will thrive upon the things that help us survive.

I hope you understand the message I am telling you, I hope you treat your un-bloomed petals with care, even if they are scarred. And even if you can't bloom, you can grow tall enough to see the sun, and sometimes that's enough. I hope that's enough.

So yes, sometimes flowers don't bloom. But that doesn't make them any less beautiful, and you are beautiful.

I love you, take care <3

-Noah Foster

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Do you ever just want to fold yourself into tiny pieces? Curl up into a ball, crumple and tear at your heart and your skin? Get torn apart by feelings you never wanted to begin with?
Do you ever just want to burn?

Well... So do I.
I call us 'paper people', the one's that have no claim to what we become, we thrive upon people's need for us. We are only used when a person throws us across a room, or when they learn and need to write down notes, or when we are used to bully and torment undeserving people. We are decorated with words, feelings and emotions. We are coloured and printed.

Yet none of it is our own.

We are created to hurt others. We give them the paper cuts. Within our pages we hide upon blank sheets, and slice at those that don't expect it.

But what us paper people need to remember, is that we don't only bring harm. We bring love, even if it's not our own.

We are born from the bark of a tree. The natural glow of purity. I don't know about you, but that means something to me. The fact that we are from something so powerful as life, something we don't have access too. And even as paper people, we thrive upon things. We survive even though we are torn and shredded. Our lives entwined within roots of the mind. Doesn't that mean something?

We are paper people. We hate what we make, but sometimes we don't. We live as we must and we learn as we can. We survive. And we'll continue surviving throughout the burn marks, we'll continue thriving until we spark flames upon the bodies of our friends. And we'll keep trying to send the messages we enjoy, the letters that write 'my love, this is to you'.

You are a paper person, and I love you.

Maybe at some point, you can love yourself too. <3

-Noah Foster