I’m feeling this way,
I don’t yet know how to escape
Yet I know it will evade at some point,
I’ve been drifting in and out,
Without much sound,
For maybe a year now, maybe only a second.
Should I think it’s an overstatement?
Is that what I’ve been lead to know?
Or is it just my mind bringing false accusations to surface?
Could it be because people want to doubt me,
Or because I assume if it’s happened to me it’s just a little bit, it’s only small; it doesn’t matter,
Not at all.
Three years? Four or five? Maybe none,
It’s not real, this doesn’t count.
Anxiety. It’s anxiety they said.
We’ll give you these pills,
Because you’re complaining about something else,
But we won’t acknowledge that.
You feel terrible, but we’ll say we’re treating the thing that you’ve put in some sort of remission.
Listen, listen. Why do they never listen?
It’s not that bad. How do I word it?
I could say I feel dead, but not really,
It’s been worse before,
So I don’t feel like I can use that description anymore.
It will go away soon,
I should be happy.
Actually, should I? I should feel tragic.
I do but I feel good sometimes too.
Why am I trying? No one who sees this will understand.
How about, it’s this:
I want to do something but I don’t feel like anything.
I don’t feel good but it’s not anxiety -
it’s been trickling in, but not this time, it’s not just that.
Maybe my emotions have just gone underground today,
Maybe it thought it would match to how I’m physically feeling.
I woke up so exhausted, I told someone I’m sick,
And they said being tired doesn’t make you sick,
But this isn’t normal tiredness,
This isn’t feeling down so your body can’t be bothered either,
This is one way of what it can feel like
When your body’s done with you,
And mines been done a long time,
But never long enough to care,
And in a decade it still won’t be time,
But I guess I should be content because
It’s only been five-hundred-and-thirty-two days.
I know no one will believe me, but maybe that’s okay,
After all, I can’t say any of these things out loud.
Like monsters, they would all surround me, laughing maliciously,
Thinking they were right,
They’re not, but how much longer do I have to put up a fight?
No one can know if I feel stressed or upset,
Not sad because then their army will have ammunition,
Meanwhile I have nothing.
Nothing, give me something,
But actually no, maybe I can’t take anymore false hope,
Because everyone, all of them, have ******* me over,
Time and time again.
They think I’m stressed, I’m not ill,
So if I say I’m starting to become stressed, unhappy, not good...
Well I don’t know what will happen,
They’ve already destroyed every single part of me.
I don’t want to give them more reasons to disbelieve my honesty.