Sick of this suffering there is no respite.
In my head is a battlezone and nowhere to rest
I walk up and down the hall, maybe a chemical imbalance? But I take every hardship as something to endure for the sake of glory.
The pills would numb me,  but not to the realities of this plane of torment.
I would always know whilst sitting in my docile state that I gave in, and there could be nothing worse.
Even now I'm tormenting myself when most would readily accept help.
Hatred is what I feel, and it sustains when nothing else could. I feel no pain when I'm angry,  just a calm in knowing I'm still alive,  I'm not dead yet.
Or at least haven't been snuffed out. But the time will soon come.  When the echoes  stop repeating and it's the still bleating of an empty void. I don't know