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Salmabanu Hatim Aug 2018
I sit there cuddled on my sofa,
I do nothing,
But, my mind  is a godown of anxiety,
Demons wreak havoc within me,
My tap is leaking with drops of fear and nervousness.
I cannot do anything about it.
I am caged,
It saps all my joy,
I need to escape from the prison of my thoughts.
I don't want them to control me,
So I decided to go to a comedy show,
Good humour was the ideal tonic,
It was the best antidote for me,
It helped.
I think I can do it.
I will also try something else to get out of it.
lX0st Aug 2018
That's the thing about insatiability
It can't be compartmentalized
It doesn't have an appointment
Or even a purpose, really
It is a persistent, unwelcome fog
That creeps into your skull
Until it smooths over every surface
And dampens every thought beneath it
And though some days
The fog may dissipate
Nothing is ever good enough
Not for long, anyway
Pyrrha Jul 2018
The one thing that I can never have
Is the only thing I seem to want
Never can I eradicate it from my mind
The thought that will punish me

Do I try too hard to make them smile?
Do I try too hard to seem like I belong?
Is that all there is,
Am I too far gone?

The thought that punishes me
Is that I will never be good enough
I can’t change the judgmental ways of the world

The thought that punishes me
Is that I will never be what you need
I can’t change all of the imperfections in my life

Despite everything I am the owner of my mind
I control these thoughts of mine
I have such power over myself

I let that power slip through my fingers
I let it become tainted
Consumed by my self loathing
My thoughts are furious and vast

Yet no matter what my desires may be they disobey
Tenebrous corners of which I cannot escape surround me
Suffocate me
As I am caged in the cursed darkness of my brain

I reach out as far as I can manage
I reach out knowing that no one will see me drowning here
In the ocean of my mind
No one will grab onto me and save me
From these thoughts of mine which punish me

Im spinning out of control
Twirling and leaping further and further away
From everything that seems to say
“Let me save you”

I run as far as I can whilst screaming
“Please someone save me”
But such a selfish thought will only lead me further astray
These are the thoughts that punish me

A feeling
A sinking feeling
Hits me out of nowhere
Its painful, I can’t deny
Why do my thoughts invade
Corner me in my own mind?

I can’t escape this pain
Where can I run when the perpetrator
Is my own conscience?
Where can I hide when i’m my own worst enemy?
How can I find a moment alone from my fear
When I am constantly there to remind myself
How terrified I am?

This fear is a prison in my mind
The insecurities toss me into a cell
They call it a moment of self doubt
A wave of depression
I am trapped here
They tell me that it’s my own fault
My own doing, a hazard to myself
I cry out over and over again
This is not me

Yet they don’t hear me from within
The confounds of my cell
Within the prison of my mind

Like sudden rainfall on a sunny day
The happiness fades away
Like water inside a drain

These thoughts are torture
These thoughts are pain
These thoughts punish me
Day after day
These thoughts destroy me
These thoughts control me
These are the thoughts that punish me
This is actually a combination of two poems I wrote earlier this year.
ClawedBeauty101 Jun 2018
Within every heart, there is a chain hooked up to a wall of flesh, blood and stone.

Scars open and cut too deeply, we rather thirst and drink our own blood then eat the molded food that the guards of fire and destruction serve us.

We try so hard to escape this hell inside our minds. But it almost seems impossible and mindless.

Every day, we live in a living nightmare. We would rather die than live another second in this kingdom of depression and wrath.

There is only one law, and the law is the image of death is nothing but a dream.  

We can try our hardest to desire the blood spill and the gushing out of beaten bones and origins to spill out of our weak and limp bodies, but all we'll do is spawn back into this waste land

Tears stream down the faces of many innocent broken people; they feast on each other like beast of a large skeleton bump sight,

We're tortured until our back bone is visible, and our voices are empty and numb.

Our fingers lay in pieces of flesh on the cold mossy stone floor from making meals for these zombies like monsters.

The meals are the hearts and frightened minds of our fathers, mothers, brothers and sisters; we weep for them and wish for no comfort.

**I am the only prisoner in this Endless Fire Hell that has a window in their dang room. I can see a brighter, safer, more loving place just millions of miles away.

I often reach my hand out the window, to at least feel tiny drops of refreshing rain on my black burning skin.

I cry aloud, calling for some kind of help, but I know that calling and crying won't get me anywhere.

The rain drops are the only loving thing I have, for they heal my scar and fix my wounds, the only hopeful thing that my blurry eyes and beaten hands have ever seen and felt.

Under neither this dungeon in the sky, is a vast and cool ocean that I long to swim in the feeling of freedom and satisfaction.

Within every moment as I swim in the burning and melting lava pool, oh how the lava is stained by the blood and eyes of prisoners that have slowly melted away.

Their skin slowly ripping off their skull as they scream in a high and painful voice… Oh how I long to feel the rain. Oh how I long for it.

On one faithful day, there was a great down pour, and the rain drops starts to sing in harmony with serenity and joy, which caused the stones of bitterness that surround my window to give way and crumble and fall into the sea.

I smiled bright for the first time in 16 years. I took the chance and jumped, but then quickly grabbed hold of a left over stone, my arm stretched in pain.

How silly of me to just jump and not knowing if I’ll die and spawn back here or if the guards will see me in the ocean and band the rain from this Nether.

My Arm soon gave up its last strength as my ****** hand finally let the stone go. I could feel the rain, filling and soaking my entire body,

I crashed into the ocean, my eyes closed, and my mouth allowing the water of purity to drown me, my arms and leg motionless as I began to sink.

I would rather die in something I love, than live in something I hate...
Written on February 11, 2016, 10:37 am
**During the time I wrote this, I used the "d*mn" word... instead of dang"

Alright, this is not a poem, but more of a story... so apologies if I disappointed any of you guys with that.

I wrote this poem after an accident with my family, where I fell into deep anger and rebellion. I wrote this poem to let out the hopelessness I felt, to let out the madness I felt locked up in.  I was very distant from God, from my family, from my church. Rereading this revealed to me how much HATRED I had...  I am blessed and surprised how God or even the people I know could ever forgive me...

Another way to look at this poem is without Him, We do live in a mind state of Hell. We will go to Hell, unless we escape that Hell, which s through Jesus Christ, which I would think represents the Down Pour. And when she Died in something she Loved, there are so many people who Died PROUDLY for their faith... and I know they would die for something they love, then live in a world of Hate... and I know in a heart beat I would do it... the Prison of Hell would Represent us being trapped in this world of Sin or being trapped in sin in general and how monstrous it is.... So I guess that's another way to look at it
Jack P Apr 2018
Back turned to back on the shivering hull
Captain declared for the anchor annulled
The old shore grew shy under asthmatic skies
And wind caught the sails as we watched its demise.

The shanties drew thin, about two hours in
Whistling fell limp 'til curled up in the din
Was a specter of that which I seldom denied:
A brother or two whom my stern face belied.

I would not leave this outline to flicker and fade
Carried by waves as mine own Mother prayed:
"If his life is cut short on the edge of the stern
God, we will find you. We will make sure you burn."

Weeks stumble by, clocks rusting by sea
And if their hands turn, they turn onto me
With reminders of blades which have long since been drawn
And the broken tree branch blooming souls in the dawn.

I've seen reflections of self in the constellation-black:
My sister rides in on the Phoenix's back
My brothers, the Gemini; two halves of a whole
And Mother Andromeda, the Queen of it all.

Ship edging near to the end of the Earth
A convict by trade but a human by birth
Tallying up days by the marks on my back
Lashings for supper and now I've lost track

And so no matter how far this old boat can sail
I'd swim 'round the world 'til my lungs twice do fail
To return to the place where the bed doesn't move
And the waves do not push like they've something to prove

*

In a week and a day I would jump overboard
Bypass the plank that the crew so adored
In a few short seconds I would make it back home
An under-sea shortcut to Our Family's Gloam.
about missing family
liberty
poetic freedom
a stick up the [redacted]
jas Apr 2018
stay up all night
my eyes are red from crying
ask me how did i sleep
i say, "just fine"

i admit i haven't been alright

its just one of those days
but its everyday
and i never have the urge to change

something inside
its different in me..
no longer alive
i don't even breathe

a prisoner in disguise
a prisoner in my own mind
in my bed full of lies

academy award for the actress I've become
jai Mar 2018
i didn’t ******* ask
for this. my illness
was not sought after,
it was not hand
picked perfectly by
me. i never wanted
the title of

                                                   “mentally ill”,

the never ending
sleepless nights, the
inability to talk
about how i feel, or
the shame that
surrounds it. being
sick the way i am is
no cry for help or
some facade to get
attention. i do not
behave the way i do
so that

                                                people pity me.

i do not starve
myself for your
attention or concern,
but because every
time i catch a
glimpse of myself
in the mirror it is
more than enough
to make me sick
with disgust. i
do not slice my
skin open for your
comments about
how childish      

                                                                ­  i am..

i tear myself apart at
the seams to repress
the excruciating pain
of my broken soul’s
raging fire inside my
chest. i do not go thru
thirteen jobs in the
span of a year because
i enjoy instability and
struggling, but because
there are days my mind
is convinced my bones
would surely shatter
at an attempt to stand.
i do not purposely lose
touch with reality,

                                                 forgetting even

what day of the week
it is. my god i would
give my life to be able
to achieve one single
goal... i would give

                                                               my life

to actually have aspirations.

                                    ~

i didn’t choose to be
this way. i have never
once been thankful for
anything

                                                       this disease

has had to offer. so
before you tell me to
try harder, or get over
myself; before you
think those nasty,
hateful thoughts about

                                                           who i am

please remember...
everyday that i
wake up is a
miracle. i am

                                                     a prisoner to

this unrelenting
melancholia that
consumes my entire
being;spirit, body,
and mind; lacking
any control over
myself. and lastly,
i am already

                                                  so unforgiving

and

                                                      brutally evil

to myself about
who i am as a
person that you
shouldn’t even
bother allowing the
negative thoughts
into your mind.
This poem was written during a fit of delirium. I was so ****** at my older sister. I mean she isn’t wrong about the severity of my current conditions, I can fully see and accept that. What she is wrong about is the ability to “ just do better,” and “try harder”. I do not believe it is at all possible to describe this state of imprisonment. This life we spend locked away in tiny cells buried in the emptiest parts of us with bloodied throats  from swallowing keys. Because after all, we are prisoners to ourselves.
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