Comfort of a Pen

I’m so sick and tired of being left behind.
This constant isolation is slowly tearing me apart,
ripping my heart open,
and destroying my mind to shreds.
I see it everyday,
the same faces,
the fake smiles,
and all of them going in different directions
as I stay here,
alone,
like usual.
It’s hard to come to a new place
and try to fit in,
for everyone already has their friends,
their groups,
their cliques,
and I am nothing more but a face,
a piece of matter,
a waste of space and air.
I don’t fit in with anyone,
and though I somehow believe I have friends,
my mind tells me that’s a lie.
It becomes evident as I watch them run to their families,
their friends.
They embrace each other with hugs;
I hug myself for warmth.
They talk and walk off together,
and I am left standing alone,
head staring at the grass,
walking the long walk back in the darkness,
away from their smiles and laughter
to my own haven of tears and misery.
They don’t notice me slip away,
because when have I ever mattered?
I am not the one helping on the battle field,
I am merely a replacement,
one not good enough to take part.
But even when I am called upon,
I stutter and stammer
and I lie,
because I know I can’t be out there,
I’m told I’m not good enough,
and I believe them.
I even know that they are trying to replace me.
I may not be a replacement any longer,
I may be even lower than that,
nothing.
Maybe I should leave while I can,
leave with any heart and mind I have left,
leave and never come back from this prison I’m in.
No one would notice,
and no one would miss me.
But where would I go?
I have no where to go
because I can’t go home,
But here has me more depressed than I ever have been.
Even my blades feel as if they have desserted me,
for like any addiction,
it takes more and more for their effect,
something I no longer want to deal with,

and somethng I try to avoid.
I can’t talk to anyone,
and I don’t have people to listen
or to hang out with anyways.
My mind plays tricks on me that I do,
but reality can be cruel,
for looks are deceiving,
and I seem to learn that the hard way.
My only comfort is my pen,
but it cannot embrace me,
it cannot talk to me,
it cannot love me,
and it cannot listen.
But it has to,
because it’s all I’ve got.