My pain is not a poem,
my poetry isn't poetic.
It's cryptic and a message,
cutting up and breaking
branches. Comprehensive;
my poems are suicidal, files of
medications and prescriptions
are seemingly all my mind
can write. Jumping to conclusions
and indenting my addictions,
inflicting this confliction, convictions
I don't mention. Those rhymes that
I have wrote; it was the drowning as I broke,
a broken draft of notes, that sing:
 "you'll never learn to float,"
Acid, or is it water?  
I'm hoping for the latter,
well I guess it never mattered,
years doubled and I'm sadder.
When does it get better?  
When do I get better?  
I guess it never will, and I'm
home but I'm not here,
I'm stuck, I'm stuck, I'm stuck,
and all my heart
can pump is tears-

An innocent scratch to ease the pain.
A skipped meal to ensure you dont gain.
A wasted day laying in bed.
Your left wondering what demons live inside your head.
You hate yourself and the mirror brings tears.
You look into the mirror & all you see is a overweight, bloated, and extremely out of shape girl. You're ugly, your worthless, is all the brain hears. You tell yourself, that no one can fix you.
This is the torture of Mental Health.

~Aishah