I've expressed all that I could.
Found a metaphor for every problem.
And made a simile so I didn't have to really think about it.
I truly have nothing left to say.
The older I grow the harder it becomes to turn my pain into poetry.
The more aware I become the more I realise there really is nothing poetic about my life.
I've become blunt and vague.
I don't speak to anyone anymore.
I don't want to share my story.
I want to close the book,
and stuff it deep into a box that will never be found.
I used to find positives in my disorders,
but now i am the disorder.
I'd rather have lower empathic abilities if it means I didn't have to feel
I'm not helping anyone.
I'm just cynical and selfish these days.
My bones and organs always ache.
There's tears burning in the back of my eyes.
Where's the poetic meaning in that?
I'm just a wimp.
I still feel as much as I always have and always will,
I'm just as exhausted, just as scared, just as broken.
But I don't want to talk about it anymore.
I want to put myself in a corner and hide until I'm forgotten.
I regret ever trying to speak up about my issues.
Now I just see myself as the issue.
That weird girl who's overly sensitive and a little too loud mouthed.
I want to be beige.
No one really likes beige.
Where's the positives and attraction towards something so bland?
It sounds perfect to me, dull, boring, beige.
I suppressed my true feelings so much that I fear they really are gone.
I was shamed for being so passionate,
Now I can't remember what that word means.
People loved me for my enthusiasm but hated it had no off button.
People loved that I always gave so much but hated it too,
had no off button.
Now I'm just off.
I don't feel anymore.
When I do it dissipates before I can recall what just happened.
I'm dazed and disconnected.
Stumbling and mumbling dull and pointless sentences,
just to let people know I do still exist.
So hey, I am still out here.. barely.
Floating around like I always have.
I'm just tired,
Tired of trying to speak when my jaw aches and clenches as I let a word escape my mouth.
I'm pointless, insignificant, bland, boring and beige.
And I can't feel sorry for myself because I made me this way.
So no one else would leave and so no one would try entering.
There's no invitations to this losers party.
And even if there was,
no one would come anyways.
Me: An old grumpy man hoping his wife will pull the cord on his life support.