I'm writing one great piece before the
real impact
sets in.
I'm telling one great tale before the
depression takes over my
being,
leaving me
entirely
immobile.

I'm sharing one opinion before I
collapse
in on myself.
I'm creating one last
failure
before I realize my
lack
of success.
I'm teaching one last lesson of
illness,
hell-bent wishes,
and nothingness.
I'm trying
one
more
time
to attempt to make
some difference.
I'm trying,
breathing,
writing
one last piece before I'm completely




consumed

Words come to my mind but I
don’t
record them, I
don’t
write them down;
I’m sick.
I’m sick and
tired,
worn down and
uninspired.
I’m simply
too sad to write.
But sometimes I have to
forget my self and
throw away my
self-pity.
I’m a
word forger first,
mentally ill second.

And still, I have
no motivation.
I need a
new muse, my
old one is just that:
old.
My
suffering is not
important enough for me to go on
pitying and
pining and
perishing.
But I’m scared.

What happens when I
throw that away?
Will the
poetry stop?
Will the
words stop
appearing in my mind?
I can see them;
I can see the
letters and the
spaces and the
lines.
They materialize in my
subconscious,
push their way to my
full attention.
They fit together like
puzzle pieces, the
beautiful, perfect letters organizing into these
amazing words, allowing me to
bend them and
shape them to my will.
I can’t risk losing that;
I love it to much.

So what will happen once I’ve found a
new muse?
Will it be
different?
Will I have to
make the words myself, instead of my
subconscious giving them to me like
perfect little gifts?
I couldn’t do that;
I’m not creative enough.
I’m not
good enough at this art to
be able to do that.

I don’t
want to change.
I don’t
want to find anything new.
I don’t
want to lose this amazing little thing that I
found in me, the
one thing I know I’m
TRUELY good at.
I don’t want to lose the
only thing that keeps me sane.

No one hears your
lovely tears but
you.
And you wonder why you’re
alone at night as you
cry for
nothing,
wishing away the ghosts that
haunt the hallways of your
memories,
whisking away the
happiness you
once had.

No one fears the
listening ears but
you as you
try to suppress the
screams that come with
every single
incision you make on your
sanity.
Now you can never go back.

No one sees your
invisible boundaries but
you, as you
see the extent of your happiness becoming
shorter and
shorter.
You know it’s going to
end you someday.
But you can’t stop it.

So how high are you on your
pedestal now as you realize
JUST
HOW
TORTURED
I was?
How low can it be, huh?
Only as low as you went when you
ripped away my joy, turned
everybody on me, made me
MISERABLE.
That’s what you get.

You get nothing.

Keep reminding yourself,
"you are loved,"
you just might make it.
Just keep walking, keep
running on the
lies feeding this
dead country.
Your jaded eyes can't see that
I am here,
calling your name
over and over and over;
you just won't listen.
Because you're
sick and tired,
run down and
uninspired,
trying to find your truth in a
nation of falsehoods.
Everyone tells you you
can't;
they're right, but that
doesn't mean you
shouldn't try.
You might still have a chance to
save yourself.