Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
I just can’t do it,
Please don’t make me,
I don’t want to see it everywhere -
All the things I should be doing, everything I thought I’d be,
I want to lock myself up somewhere else,
Even if the light won’t get to me.

Don’t come close,
No, I told you so!
It’s dangerous here, maybe even deadly,
No matter whoever for it can’t be a good thing,
I don’t know if I think you’ll hurt me,
But please just stay away
I need to manage myself but you’re taking that away,
Not that I ever had it,
It seems I keep slipping,
Further, further, gone.

It’s okay now, it’s the end,
I’m done and
Won’t be coming back again.

You’ll see how much less misery,
You’ll have away from me.

This is over,
I’m sure I really give up this time,
This is me actually giving it up,
Goodbye.
Saying goodbye to everything I once had hope in because I’m done.
If it’s all the same to you,
I’d like us to
Never speak again,
Everything’s already ruined.
When this came to me it didn’t seem to mean anything on a personal level and I don’t think it does now, but I’m sure I could come up with one. XD
I’m feeling this way,
I don’t yet know how to escape
Yet I know it will evade at some point,
I’ve been drifting in and out,
Without much sound,
For maybe a year now, maybe only a second.
Should I think it’s an overstatement?
Is that what I’ve been lead to know?
Or is it just my mind bringing false accusations to surface?
Could it be because people want to doubt me,
Or because I assume if it’s happened to me it’s just a little bit, it’s only small; it doesn’t matter,
Not at all.

Three years? Four or five? Maybe none,
It’s not real, this doesn’t count.
Anxiety. It’s anxiety they said.
We’ll give you these pills,
Because you’re complaining about something else,
But we won’t acknowledge that.
You feel terrible, but we’ll say we’re treating the thing that you’ve put in some sort of remission.
Listen, listen. Why do they never listen?

It’s not that bad. How do I word it?
I could say I feel dead, but not really,
It’s been worse before,
So I don’t feel like I can use that description anymore.
It will go away soon,
I should be happy.
Actually, should I? I should feel tragic.
I do but I feel good sometimes too.
Why am I trying? No one who sees this will understand.
How about, it’s this:
I want to do something but I don’t feel like anything.
I don’t feel good but it’s not anxiety -
it’s been trickling in, but not this time, it’s not just that.
Maybe my emotions have just gone underground today,
Maybe it thought it would match to how I’m physically feeling.
I woke up so exhausted, I told someone I’m sick,
Still sick,
And they said being tired doesn’t make you sick,
But this isn’t normal tiredness,
This isn’t feeling down so your body can’t be bothered either,
This is one way of what it can feel like
When your body’s done with you,
And mines been done a long time,
But never long enough to care,
And in a decade it still won’t be time,
But I guess I should be content because
It’s only been five-hundred-and-thirty-two days.

I know no one will believe me, but maybe that’s okay,
For now,
After all, I can’t say any of these things out loud.
Like monsters, they would all surround me, laughing maliciously,
Thinking they were right,
They’re not, but how much longer do I have to put up a fight?
No one can know if I feel stressed or upset,
Not sad because then their army will have ammunition,
Meanwhile I have nothing.
Nothing, give me something,
But actually no, maybe I can’t take anymore false hope,
Because everyone, all of them, have ******* me over,
Time and time again.
They think I’m stressed, I’m not ill,
So if I say I’m starting to become stressed, unhappy, not good...
Well I don’t know what will happen,
They’ve already destroyed every single part of me.
I don’t want to give them more reasons to disbelieve my honesty.
We were younger
But so invincible we believed,
What we now look back and see as childish
We once thought was so free,
We were so brave
We thought we could fight anything
If we had the will to try.
I’m sorry for letting the darkness seep in,
So many times, and for telling you about it,
I should have let it fester quietly instead,
Then maybe you wouldn’t have got fed up and left just yet.
I never wanted to write poems about her
(Unless intentionally)
Because if she came back it would feel embarrassing,
Because I wouldn’t want to mark her like that,
As someone who I felt guilty about giving a reason to be guilty.
Usually when I write poems it’s about something or someone who really hurt me,
And I could never let that be true
So I never allowed myself to write about her like that,
Because I would tell her everything but I wouldn’t want to tell her that.
And now I know she’s not coming back,
But I don’t want to do it still,
I know I do it anyway,
But I can’t make myself press delete
On things that mean she’s never coming back to mess me around again.
My heart, or maybe my soul, can’t forget
That we were supposed to still be best friends.
I am sick of all this fantasy,
The interrupting memories
And the pain that screams inside the walls of me
In a prison kept there for risk of my insanity.
And where can I scream it all out
Without it coming back to me,
Lurking around to smother me inside it’s mocking misery?
You can tell I couldn’t think of a title.
Next page