Today I wrote a poem
It took me five minutes
It was short,
A little choppy,
And pretty irrational,
But people really seemed to like it.
It got so many comments
And an encouraging amount of favorites.

So I decided to write another one.

This one took me two days
I poured my heart and soul into it,
And then set it free to start it’s life of internet fame
Only this time,
The poem got two likes
And no comments.

I guess people don’t like looking at my soul
That’s okay.
I’ll keep putting it on display anyway
Because maybe someone will like it
And then maybe they’ll comment on it

I don’t like waiting, but I will
Because I know that souls are hard to look at
When I take five minutes
To jot down a thought,
It’s so simple
But my heart and soul are much more complicated.

So take your time
Like it or don’t
But I’ll be happy, because
The most genuine form of writing is when you write to yourself.

My wings spread and I let it get to my head
just like I let you into my bed

Oh what a risk I took to feel bliss
but now all I seem to do is miss

I miss the way you'd call my name from across the hall

And how when I bawled I'd think
"he'd break my fall"

But you didn't
and now all I'm left with is anticipation of a call

Every so often at night,

as  I lay in my bed

Alone, the voices

start  talking in my head.

Think of me mad,

But they fancy me dead.


These voices are unique,

All one of a kind.

And every single one of them,

wrapped up in my mind.

But they cloud my senses,

And make me blind.


I don’t know when they started,

Or where they came from.

But they play with my mind,

As if it were a toy.

Thinking of it now,

Am I the one to blame?


I listen to them telling me

Things like right from wrong.

I used to ignore them,

But the voices are far too strong.

Think of me mad,

But they’ve been here all along.


For I am the voices,

And the voices am I.

Created by me,

To give a me reason why.

Like an imaginary friend,

But one that gone away.

What used to be part of me,

Simply turned too sly.

Nobody can help me,

There’s no one to rely

On but the voices.

Who have done nothing but imply,

That they fancy nothing more,

Than for me to die.


So as the night roars nearer,

And the loneliness creeps in,

The voices start talking to me,

Again and again.

Soon, one of these nights,

I don’t know when,

The voices in my mind,

Will eventually win.

My room therein,

Would lie a lonely girl,

Who only once had been.