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my entire life, my body and soul have felt so hollow
this pain in my throat’s just too hard to swallow.
oh the ******* guilt inside me is a fire burning
so i build up walls to protect you from hurting.
i didn’t want to end up all by myself
but for you it’s best i’m not a book on your shelf.
you shouldn’t read through the chapters of my chaotic life
and endure the same misery as if to be stabbed by a knife
the same blade i use to penetrate & slice my skin
opening my flesh, trying to release my demons within
i get hypnotized by the way my blood bleeds
watching myself suffer, lacking what a human needs.
one mortal cannot tread through life without love
does my life even matter if they’re already given up?
the voice of depression: “i am so lonely. i keep questioning myself. questioning my life. what’s the point anymore?” It is such a consistent and persuasive disease. it’s similar to how a shadow can never disappear; lights on, it’s right beside you (even when you aren’t looking for it). lights off, it’s surrounding you (the darkness is all shadows, not just yours.)
they say you shouldn't hold tight onto a dark memory
because the demons will slowly take over
and corrupt your sanity.
what they fail to mention is releasing your grip, allowing yourself to cave in and be consumed with your reality is the most painful of all.
frame by frame of the haunting must now be relived.
the aroma, the deafening pounding of your heart in your ears, the clenching of your bones.
the most engaging and powerful moment of one's life is undoubtably the moment you must
allow yourself to not only remember,
but be enveloped by the terror
once again.
speaking aloud is what changes
a memory into reality.
**why must facing the truth be the most painful?
poem poetry honest author inspire question pain **** abuse neglect drug terror real life anxiety depression torture
I have tasted darkness,
and oh how bitter-sweet it was on my tongue.
It electrified my taste buds
and sent my body numb.
I had never felt a rush vibrate my bones
from the eruption of tears
escaping from eye to cheek.
what an odd sensation
to smile for being weak.
i'm victim to my demons
and their persuasive way of speech.
hanging by my fingertips,
fascinated by how they bleed.
one slight movement and my spirit will soar.
tempting to not only try,
but succeed the evil deed.
it lives within me.
it has wrapped and tangled itself into my core,
like gum trapped in hair.
it has a sour taste
that has tattooed itself onto my tongue.
forever lingering.
it has made it's mark on my skin,
it has marked it's territory inside of my soul,
like a dog with the boundaries of it's yard
defensive and ready to fight any intruder,
no matter who they may be.
i should be terrified and
petrified to have allowed a demon
access and control
of my being.
but depression has a mind of it's own.
it will let the darkness consume
every ounce of light left in your bones
until they shatter to dust.

*it lives within me
and will not leave until
my heartbeat has become mute.
you ask me who i am,
but rather you should ask what i am not.

i am a soul who was once so lost.
i was walking a path that only brought destruction.
i blamed myself for not being good enough.
i inflicted wounds onto my skin,
i restricted my hunger,
i tried to end it all one day
and then i heard the voice.
i am not sure who it belongs to,
but it saved my life.
Do not let this fool you,
i did not want to be saved.
i did not want to breathe.

i was a girl
who had played too many games,
fought too many battles,
and lost too much hope.
I was a girl
who tried to call the grim keeper,
who was hospitalized by a friend,
who was touched by unwanted hands.
I was a girl
who was abused by her father,
abandoned by her family,
and fooled by her friends.

who has finally found respect for herself.
I was broken,
my soul shattered into millions of pieces,
but i am healed
and more alive than ever.

i was lost
but now i am found.
a way to cleanse my soul,
a cure to my diseases.
writing is my angel.
when my mouth becomes at fault
to organize my words,
writing is my savior.

but sometimes a haze
covers my analytical abilities.
like a cloud casting shadows onto earth's ground.
writers block is poisonous to my fragile brain.

i hate that i forget how to rescue myself.
i'm drowning in my lack of awareness.
struggling to speak through my hands.
i'm afraid it is too late
to save my once poetic mind.

even this makes me horrified
that i may
have lost my voice
Why would one let themselves be consumed by the darkness that they had been fighting for so long?
The darkness had slowly taken their soul, piece by piece, until only dust remained.
People do not understand that sadness is much easier to feel than happiness.
Why does it feels better to wallow in your own sorrows, to continue to be destroyed by your thoughts?
Why do our demon's whispering sins tempt us to try?
Why are bad things so enticing?
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