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The violin
screams its voice—
The voice of
the beauty of pain
for the lonely.
Played so loudly
and violently—
It could not
have meant anything
but violence.

Only then,
the violinist hears
the haunting words:

“Oh help me—“
“PLEASE HELP ME!”
I try to keep up,
but then I fall.
Soon, I sink
into the wheelchair.
White lights glare—
cold, grimy,
asylum prison.

Fallen.
Broken.
Soul stolen.
Poison in my veins.

"All I want is"—

I stare for hours
down endless,
narrow halls,
full of lost souls—
the ones who let go,
ended up hospitalized—
suicide on their minds.

I feel paralyzed—
left traumatized,
trapped inside,
confined,
searching the
room for you,
someone to talk too.
I can still feel you,
but you’re not here.
You’re not there.
You’re nowhere.

A bandage covers
my right arm,
hiding the cuts,
hiding the pain,
but drowning deep.
I don’t know who to trust,
“All I want is love”—
but my hands are tied.

I hate feeling desperate,
I don’t feel protected,
you told me you
would protect me,
I don’t feel respected,
I feel rejected,
I hate rejection,
I feel defensive,
I feel vulnerable,
I feel exposed,
all alone—

WHY CAN’T YOU
LET ME GO?!
I've been through a lot for the last few days, so I'm sorry if I'm not posting a lot of poems rn...
Fri, Jan 17 at 5:53pm:

Hey

“Hey”
“What’s up?”

Nothing much, um…
Oh btw, I talked to a counselor today!
Thought that would make u happy!

“Yea”
“I’m proud of u for that”
“How’d it go?”

It was fine…
I wrote a poem.
It’s a bit rough, though.
It’s what I’ve shown.

“Mind if I see?”

Yea:
Here’s the truth…
“I wanna die,”
“I wanna survive,”
the ropes are tearing me,
pulling me apart,
like tug of war.
I wanna cry
but my tears are dry.
I wanna go back
and try to start over—

But I can’t…
I can’t sleep,
I can’t breathe,
I can’t see,
I can’t be free,
I can’t find what I seek.

I can’t scream—
my voice breaks.
I can’t be saved.
I’m stuck in my room,
I can’t love you.
I can’t be loved.
I can’t be enough.

I can’t find you,
I can’t find me.

I hate myself,
I hate who I am,
and I miss the
old me who didn’t.

I hate my life,
I hate the time,
I hate this day,
I hate every minute,
I hate the memories I made—
but they’re all I have left.

I hate the silences.
I hate the noise.
I hate walking away,
I want to stay,
but I’m always a memory away.
I hate the pain and ache of wanting,
yet never being heard.
I hate everything,
It hurts!

*******,
**** me,
**** everyone
who lies and say
it’s gonna be ok,
the talents I hold,
every word I spoke,
this poem I wrote,
the illusions of hope,
the isolation—
I’m getting cold
and alone…

The Crooked Man’s
living rent-free,
laughing.

I wanna scream
into the void—
*******!
Because I’m still here.

“****….I’m sorry”

Why…?

“I should’ve tried
to reach out more”

NO NO IT’S FINE!

“No no”
“It’s not”
“I have to take
a bit of responsibility”

No!
Ur ok!
I promise!

“To be honest, I’m not rly sure
what I’m doing, but I should
have just tried to do more”

Ur fine!
I’m sorry for texting u

“No, don’t be”

And for sending you that poem

“Really don’t be”

Yea well…
U might think I’m
gonna **** myself

“Uh, I didn’t”
“But does it cross ur mind?”

Idk…

“Well don’t let it take up space
In your mind”
“You don’t need to waste your time
on thoughts like that”
“There are many people who
care about you that want you
to be happy”
“No matter how lonely you feel
There are always people
you can reach out”
“All you need to do is try”

Sometimes, it’s hard to exist without
having ******* problems spiraling…
And I bet u have some really
good things going on!
Meanwhile, I had a panic attack
yesterday in the bathroom, crying…

“I’ve had situations like that before too”
“Just try to take deep slow breaths
and think of something good”
“It doesn’t matter what—
just something”
“It’ll pass a lot easier”

I tried that but that
doesn’t work.
Though what helps is
if I cry I’ll just cry
by myself or something…
Or nothing…

“Yea…I guess that works too”
“Helps get it out of your system”

Yea…
What **** me off with counselors
or therapists is when I try to get help,
they either think I’mma **** myself,
say it’s gonna be ok, or do something
ENTIRELY different that’ll
make it worse…
Or just not help me at all,
And then I fall to the floor.
I hate it.

“I can kinda relate to that”
“You just need to talk to
the right person”

Yea, well...
My advice—
Don’t be like me.
It *****.
The one thing I’ve learned is
the fact I’m emotionally deep.
I hate myself for that cuz
I can’t breathe, sleep, eat,
feel free, or be me
normally anymore.
That’s why I write
good poetry like this.

“Ahh I see”
“And my advice is to not
beat yourself up too much.
Just pick things you want to
change and slowly work at it.”

That’s what you said in the library

“Good”
“That’s cuz it’s important”
“Arguably one of the most
important things in life”

Why..?

“There are things in life that
we can control and things
we can’t hold”
“And when there’s something we can’t”
“We just have to look at it in a
way that benefits us”
“So I’d say that when you do
find someone who can relate
to you it will be even better”

So like suffer…?

“Yea like suffer”

Oh well, **** me blue!

“Blue..?”

What?
U want the whole rainbow?

“Is it a saying?”

Yea

“Ahhhh”
“It’s a Paul special”

It’s *******, lol

“Anyways, I gtg for dinner”

Yea, cya

“Bye”
This is a mix of a real life text message I had but I tried to make it rhyme, flow and MOSTLY create some sort of story about how I felt about it...
(BTW IT IS IN TEXT FORM AND SORRY FOR MAKING THE STORY LONG!)
I have
no clue
how to
love you.
It’s like
flipping a
Rubik’s cube.
All we do
is continue to
argue in your room,
circling around
an issue—
left in a mystery,
an unsolved
Enigma...
My mind’s
imagining an ocean
full of emotions
flooding in.
My fingers racing
in motion on
the blazing typewriter.
Clicking keys
like a melody,
every rhythm of word
turns into a sentence.
Then into a poem
of deeper realism
typed on paper
as the typewriter
is blazing like wildfire.
*DING
Dead in my bed.
My head aches,
swollen with stress.
Tragedy rewinds
on a worn VHS tape,
a melody played
on my old cassette.

My chest is heavy,
covered in sweat,
breaths shaky,
emotions suppressed,
I’m breaking slowly
as the voice creeps in.

I swallow pills,
force to forget
who I am…
Soon, I’ll be a
Dead Silhouette…
Beyond the mountains
of morning,
an Angel sings
a melody of a
Thousand lost spirits.
Its lyrics sharpen
into weapons,
carving truths.

Too sharp to be
spoken and sung.
Too raw to be
understood.

Its wings eaten
away by maggots.
Its heart stabbed by demons.
Once a heaven of innocence,
until shadows killed
the Angel’s soul.
Now trapped and
hidden forever
in shadows with
no wings,
its voice hits anger
and violence and
no freedom.
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