My hands are ******* shaking-
As if this is the worst thing I've done-
I'm just typing in a number.
It's a ****** number and I'm-

I'm losing my mind like
"Doctor, what the hell is wrong with me?"
Like I don't wanna know because this *******...
This ******* can diagnose me.

So I'm ******* shaking until I have to sit down
And deciding everything I have to censor
Because I'm going to hire this Psychiatrist as a friend
But my brain is all warning lights and cries of "ENEMY"

And I've got nightmares thinking about talking about
About anything with substance. Anything I care about
Because it'd take one wrong word in the thick of emotion
For me to be labeled and I've already done that

I don't need another ******* label.

But self-therapy never did me any good and I've got enough bad
And all my therapists were money grubbing shitbags
So I'm going to buy a label from a psychiatrist
With my fingers crossed that I'll get a bottle of complimentary pills

I'm choosing the lesser of two evils that both turn my stomach
***** it, because I've already been ******* by therapy
And even if the psychiatrist is just as bad
It's not like any of them got **** on how I ******* me.

Lately,
I've written so many. .  .
Shown the world less . .  .
Maybe it's time to rest.

For now, goodbye.
till I fix my life. .  .
till I miss your caress . .  .
till my poetry becomes worth sharing . .  .
till my love comes back . .  .

perhaps that day is never coming.
perhaps this is the last post I make.

Farewell, Hellopoetry.
**Hello, my agonizing reality.

Hello / goodbye
bent on / goodnight
Can't sleep / just cry
My dreams / I die
Don't live / survive
Im losing / the fight
Demons / unite
Take over / my mind
Can't see / I'm blind.
Get in / and drive
Away / behind
we're out / of time
People / they try
They ask / I lie
They hear / they buy
While I / stand by
And whisper / **"I'm fine"

"Are you getting better?"
"Why are you sad?"
"Do you still cut."
"How do you feel?"

"Worse."
I'm getting worse.
I'm not sad, I'm distraught.
I don't cut, I hack.
I feel worse.

"I'm not actively suicidal."
"I don't want to hurt anyone."
"I'm feel okay."
"I feel nothing."

Worse.
The thoughts have gotten worse.
I care less because I want more.
I feel like I'm drowning. Constantly.
Apathy is so much worse.
So much worse than emotion.

I don't want to be here.
I don't want to wake up.
I don't want to breathe.
I don't want to see.
I don't want to hear.
I don't want to smell.
I don't want to eat.
I don't want to think.

Everything's so much better
So why am I so much worse?

My mother has regained her maiden name
And there's no father to beat me up
And tell me how worthless I am.
My sister has come to terms with her sexuality
And there's no serious vitriol between us
For me to brood and cry about;
She hasn't hit me in years.
My family has been cut off from me
And there's no disappointed looks
For me to escape from.
My best friend is trying to rekindle what we had
And there's no faux pas or jibes
For me to be hurt over.
My mother is in the process of buying a house
So there'll be no panic attacks living in close range
To strangers in an apartment.
My senior year begins soon
And there'll be no adult to command me soon
While I'm holed up somewhere for college.
I've weeded the fake friends out
So there's no person whispering hatred behind me
And I won't run myself thin trying to please them.

So why am I worse?
I have everything in the world one could ask for.
I may not be rich,or even well-off
But I have an IPad and a phone
And several gaming systems.
There's food in the house and clean water.
I have a bed to sleep on and a roof over my head.
I have an Internet connection that's reliable.
I have usage of all my limbs and
I have music to listen to constantly.

So why am I worse?
I have nothing to complain or whine about.
I have nothing to cry and scream over.
I am living a life some others would envy.
Yet, here I am writing self-centered, pitiful poetry
And considering suicide.

I disgust myself, in this aspect.
I woke up this morning with life I'm not sure I want
And someone, somewhere, would value it more.
I bemoan my appearance and obsess over my weight
But I am symmetrical and healthy.
I have nothing to justify my pity-parties.

I don't have the right to be worse than I was.
See, no, I may not prosecute someone for being happy
When there are others who are happier
But I will prosecute myself for being sad
When there are others who have it worse.
Because I should be grateful for all I have.
I should smile everyday for waking up.
I should hold my life in high regard.

But I do not.

There's no rhyme or reason to this long winded spiel.
I do not expect or care if it's read.
I believe, in a way, this is part one of several
Of a letter to my mother, sister, and friends
As an explanation. As compensation.
I used to say I wanted to die, but I'd never do it.
Because I know me, and 'me' is a coward,
Terrified of her own shadow.
But now I see myself slipping and this is...
This is the best justification I have:

I am doing worse. Though I have no right to be. I wake up in the morning listless. I wake up and nothing seems better. I wake up, sometimes, gasping and scared from nightmares. I wake up, sometimes, missing my father. I wake up without motivation. And I go about my day without ambition. Writing no longer brings me pleasure. Nor reading. Nor running. Nor speaking. Nor silence. Nor music. Nor singing. Nor gaming. Nor thinking. Nor pottery. Nor poetry. Nor people. Nor solitude. Nor anything, really. I wake up searching for something. I do not know what. And I go about my day understanding that I have not, did not, and will not find it. I wake up lonely. I wake up starved for comfort and a listening ear. And by the time I've swung my legs out of bed, I am numb and I feel nothing at all. It is sweet agony. I am engulfed by my own mind and I rip myself apart daily. I never remember which piece goes where. I go through my days like this; breathing, alive, but not living. I am tired. I am sorry, because I know what I promised, but I am tired.

-Nadia (aka. Chaus)