-Oliver-

        Who would have thought that by eighteen, I would be known by thousands? Who would have thought my poetry could be more than just words to other people? Who would have thought that they could hear what I feel, and feel what I feel? Who would've thought that they could feel the words I spoke? Who would've thought that my words could be something bigger then just words?

        But who would have thought that I would still feel like this?

        Maybe it's the emptiness, of this giant mansion. Maybe it's still trauma from my childhood. Maybe it's just the pain of a poet. . .

        It started a while ago. I was sixteen when I started to write. I have no clue why. I presume it's because no one would listen to me, except for the piece of paper. I would write everything I felt. I would empty myself of my emotions with a pencil. I would write everything down. Eventually I discovered spoken word poetry. A type of poetry that you can speak, and give verbal emotion to what you write. A type of poetry where people listened.

        The beginning of senior year, someone found a video of me, performing one of my poems in a cafe. They reposted it. Then someone else reposted it. And that continued until a talent scout found me. He called me, and told me he wanted to add music to my poems, and put them on a CD, and offer me a contract. So, of course, I told him yes. I had no clue what was going to happen. All I knew is it gave me an excuse to get out of the house. So I was eager to take that opportunity. I never thought that I would be riding on a scholarship to any school I could think of. I never thought that I would be living on my own, in a mansion when I was eighteen. I never thought that I would get paid thousands of dollars for feeling what I felt. So maybe it's not a bad thing that I'm still terribly sad. But it's so hard to wake up and look at yourself thinking that you are a fuck up.

        It's so hard to leave the house. I don't want to sign autographs when I want some food. I don't want to be followed by people with their phones. I don't want to be known. I just want to be heard. I have to go to my manager today, because he won't come to me today. He's always stuck in his office.

        I need to show him my poem. It has to be good enough for people. That's another thing that's so hard. Actually writing what I feel. Because apparently only a small few of people who listen to poetry, can relate to my poems. And I need to follow other people's expectations. And I can't be myself anymore.

        When I get to my manager's office, Rob is on the phone. It's nothing unusual.

        "'Kay Jerry, gotta go, poem boys here," Rob says into the phone with a hearty laugh. "Yes I will. See ya Jerry." The chubby, but finely groomed man puts down the phone.

        "Poem Boy?" I ask. Though it's not the first time I've heard that nickname of mine.

        "That was Jerry, He wishes you luck on the finals." Rob, as always doesn't return my question.

        "The poetry slam doesn't start until next week. Why is he already talking about finals?" I ask.

        "Well kid, you're kicking ass already. I mean look at ya! Your a hot poet, with serious talent. There's no chance you will lose, my boy." He emphasizes every word with his hands. The way he talks mixed with the way he looks, reminds me of men from the mafia.

        "I still don't understand why you want me to compete still. I mean, I'm doing just fine selling albums and shows." I sigh.

        "We've been over this bucko, it's a free and easy way to get your name out there."

        "Whatever." I roll my eyes at him. "Do you want to hear the newest one now?"

       "Ya betcha."

        Rob leans back in his chair ready to listen to how much money my words are going to get him.

"Im at the peak of the roller coaster /

and who knows when we are going to plummet down. /

Down into the abyss again. /

You would think these coasters are fun./

But for me, they are terrifying./

For me, they are not an amusement/

I am afraid of the/ unknown/

and when I ride this coaster I cannot open my eyes./

I cannot see the very near future. /

I don't know what's going to happen next./

I don't know if I am going to fall, or rise even higher. /

I don't know if i'm going upside down ,/

or if I'm staying right side up./

I don't know if i'm at the end, or just the beginning./

I'm riding this roller coaster, and I just want it to stop./

I cannot do this./

I cannot be tossed around like a rag doll./ But I cannot stop this coaster/

Without the disappointment of others./

So I stay on. It's a torture to me, /

but only to me it seems./

I have to push through this unending fear. /

I have to push through this ride until the end of my time./

For this rides name,/

is life."

        I look up from my phone, of which I was reading from, and await for Robs response.

        He just stares at the ground. Thinking.