Somedays
I question what
Im doing, if at all anything

Somedays
I question who
Im turning into and who I am

Somedays
I question where
I'm going to find the answers to the problems

Somedays
I question when
Im finally able to say I did something and am happy

Somedays
I question how
Im even getting out of bed in the morning

Somedays
I question why*
Im still alive

Imagine a voice.

The voice of negativity.

Sitting prettily in the back of your head.

Judging your every move.

Your every inclination.

You got one wrong on a test?
You ******* up.
How could you be so dumb?
Try harder next time.

You had a treat?
Who says you deserve that?
Certainly not I.
You lazy, fat, sloth.

Is that your reflection in the mirror?
Now isn't that terrifying?
That acne, that hair.
Yikes.

I run amok in your mind.

I control your every last move.

Just try to escape my wrath.

You blubbering, bumbling fool.

Sitting in the dark
Make up running down my face
Crying so hard
My mind is a haze

Why do I do this
To myself
I think I'm crazy
I need some help

My hand is numb
And my body shakes
My wrist is ******
My wrist aches

I'm sorry
I know I promised
But I couldn't help it.....

“I write because there is a fire inside me that only ink can put out.”

“If you don’t feel like you’ve been stabbed in the chest every time you write poetry, you’re not doing it right. Because the part of you that’s hurting needs to bleed, needs to die. That’s how a poem is born.”