I tried. 

I can't say I didn't try.

I write things that don't even rhyme, that could easily be put into the category of depressing monologues about what I'm thinking, feeling, and going through, and yet I call it poetry.

I'm technically published.

Wohoo

Bravo me.

No one reads what I write anyway.

Except maybe my English teacher and one of my best friends.

Everything I've written paints the picture of a girl with family issues, anxiety, and countless mental health problems.

Champagne problems, really.

My mental health is nothing in comparison to everything going on in the world today.

Afghanistan, Omicron, poverty, hunger.

And then there's me with

just my stupid, stupid, champagne problems.

Sham-pain problems, more like.

I'm grateful for what I have, grateful for my life, but I just exist.

I don't live, I exist.

Hell, even my school therapist only talks to me out of concern for my suicidal friend, my mental state being pushed to the side, even though she says she's there for my mental health too.

It's not a priority.

Suicide is more important than my breakdowns in the middle of the hall, my anxiety attacks in the middle of class, and my family problems.

My crap pales in comparison to my friend's.

As it should.

Its not like you're actually reading this.

Its not like anyone hears what I'm trying to say.

I'ts not like anyone knows I'm crying while writing this, listening to Netflix Trip and thinking that my friends are all characters on film or paper or both.

Sham-pain problems, remember?

Shout out to my English teacher, who just might be the only one to see this.

Shout out to the Teen Ink team for reviewing yet another one of my mediocre "poems"

Why you even publish the sh*t I say in these things is beyond me, but thank you for publishing it anyway, even if this one doesn't slide by.

You guys probably think I'm crazy for continuing to write.

I know there's very few people who care about poetry anymore. Most think I'm an emotional wreck (not wrong) and a psycho (not entirely wrong) for writing it.

I write it as its the only way I feel creative anymore.

I'm good at hiding the ways I'm messed up.

If you look closely, you can see it.

See my brokenness that doesn't matter.

And I panic, because if I'm not "okay," then what am I?

I panic, frantically trying to hide what I don't want you to see.

I think I kinda hate myself.

Sometimes its more prevalent than others.

Champagne problems

Sham-pain problems

I see no difference. 

But you're not reading this.

no one is.

It's my writing.

No one reads my writing.

You're not reading this.

Because what I say and think and feel; anything I'm going through doesn't matter to you.

You're not reading this.

Why would you?