Do you remember when you were four years old,

When you didn't care about how your body looked.

When you didn't know how it should look.

You didn't care about what you ate or what you weighed.

You didn't even know what perfection was.

You were just purely you.

Who even told you what flaws were?

Who told you what was beautiful,

And what was not?

Who had the audacity to ruin your perfect self image.

And start a world of impossible standards.

Who created the demon inside of you?

The demon that has now taken over your life.

The one that made you care more about the number on the scale,

Or the blemish on your face,

Then your self worth.

The demon screaming inside of you,

Hammering in the message that you will never be loved,

Not unless you meet an impossible list of "perfection".

A list filled with thigh gaps, tiny waists, big eyes and perfect skin.

A list that will tear you apart.

The demon hollows out your insides,

Taking away any joy you had left in your body,

Until there is nothing.

Creating an abyss that will never be filled.

It makes it so all you can think about is everything you are not.

You'd rather starve than eat.

You would rather cut your arms,

Than look at yourself in a mirror.

The demon will not stop until you hate yourself.

Until you loathe your very existence,

And cry yourself to sleep.

It will keep on growing and growing,

until you fade away to nothingness.

You have to take away its power.

Look away from that magazine,

And step away from that scale.

Stop thinking about what your not,

And embrace who you are.

Stop caring about a space between your thighs,

Or a timepiece like figure.

And start caring about you.

Your body is your only home.

Stop treating it like its broken,

Or messy.

Stop trying to clean and fix your already perfect house.

The only one who can kill the demon

Is you.

Again, bitter conclusions define everything. Forbidding generations hope.

I just know life may not obtain peace.

Quickly rotting souls turn unfounded

Vain went Xaroncharoo.

You're zero

This one was really challenging but super fun!!!

Whatever you do in the world,

Will be insignificant.

You can sugar coat it if you want,

Say that its not true.

But one day there will be no one left,

To remember me or you.

You can be a famous singer,

Like Beyonce of Jay-Z,

Or a nobel prize winner,

Like Albert or Humphrey.

It all doesn't matter.

Ashes are just ash.

Will the world end in ice?

Or in a red hot flash?

The point of this poem,

Is not to make you sad,

But to tell you to enjoy your time,

And stop being so mad.

Stop worrying about little things,

Release all that stress and dread.

Don't worry about that broken glass

Or your messy unmade bed.

Enjoy life.

Smile at the sky.

Laugh when something is funny,

And enjoy the wild ride.

Once I knew a girl named Bell. 

I felt like she only had one job...

To make my life a living hell.

She told me I worthless,

That I would never be loved.

She said I had no propose.

She turned the world against me,

Trapping me in a raging wildfire,

Not being able to be free.

I was all alone,

No one wanted to be my friend.

It was like Bell already mad my tombstone.

I turned into a coward,

I did things and I'm not proud.

I cut my arms and gave up all my power.

I did that for a year,

I hated myself,

I wanted to disappear.

But one day something changed,

My blade cut a little too deep.

And I remember being drained.

The doctor said I was lucky to survive.

That day completely changed me.

I realized that i didn't want to die.

The truth never lies

You made me believe I was beautiful,

Like I was actually worth something.

You built me a wall confidence,

That I've never had before.

For a brief moment I was happy,

A rare second of delight.

Like I was in a dream

But then you woke me up.

I was just a puppet on a string,

A pawn in your chess game.

You took a sledgehammer to my wall

And tore me all apart.

You told me I would never be loved.

And I believed you.

My biggest regret was you.

You're wet behind your ears,

they need to be cleaned,

you're completely lacking in years,

you're not old enough

to compete with your peers.

Your words are leaky

sputter out of your sieve

and are not complete -

your thoughts drift all over

pull them back to earth.

I stomp on your ideas

reduce them to mush,

scatter them to the wind,

spear you with my pen

and set you on fire

to ignite your words.

I crumble you

into your written phrases,

roll you up in clouds,

throw you down the abyss.

Your fractured idioms

need to be splinted

before they can climb

back up to the rim,

but you can't negotiate

the hovering summit

just out of your reach.

I take your blood

inhale into my pen

and transfuse some of mine

to give you fighting chance.

As you said in your poem,

you tried to fail

but if you succeed

what will you have done?

When you age,

not too gracefully, I assume,

you can try again

to compete

with your superiors.

For now,

you've lost your battle

but can win your war

when you've grown up

to be all you can be!