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Neelam Jul 13
The light
in her eyes
had grown
strangely dim,

Her own shadow
had deserted her,

No one knows
about her
secret battles
to preserve
the sanity,

No one had ever
dived deep into
those eyes,
they invalidated
her suffering.
I interact with myself constantly
So understandably, it’s exhausting
The voices speak so compassionately
Why would I ever express outwardly?

Empathy tree stump to sit just the one
I stand on this pedestal to view you
My frozen expression needs warmth from sun
Only then can I ask “How do you do?”

Animate mixes poorly with my buzz
The vibrating heartbeat… all I have left
All else is a blank canvas, just because
I’m trapped on stage, all I have is mind set

Leave me alone, I want to be myself
My one care is for what can’t speak itself
The descent into madness is all i’ll ever know.
The voices in my head will never let go
I stare absently at the wall
While I hear them and their call
They won’t let me ignore them, believe me I’ve tried.
They tell me they’re really angels, I get caught in their lie.
Reality checks in and I realize I have been fooled again.
I feel like once again I'm in the lions den.
They’re really devils whispering sweet nothings in my ear.
Sadly there’s nothing I can do about it. I wish I could just disappear.
I succumb to their voices and I talk with them, for if I don't they don’t quit.
It's a terrible thing to go through. I must admit.
The only way to silence them is if I'm sleeping.
For the moment I wake up I feel them creeping.
Speaking to me as soon as I open my eyes.
I really wish to them,  I could say goodbye.
If there were a cure I'd want it badly.
But alas! There’s not. Only more voices I reflect sadly.
Oculi Apr 17
With nothing to see and nowhere to be,
With no one to be and nowhere to go:
Empty, like the meaning of the spring dew
Dissipating, hundreds of pieces, scattered
Individual voids waiting upon a cue
To become what they embody, fettered.
A field of unquiet quietness, occasionally
interrupted by a single, awful tone.
What existence is this exigence?
Unknowable, unspeakable, unending:
Pain is what it is.

The dew knows not why it's stepped on,
Ending its momentary nature
Only to crop up tomorrow and be none
The foot becoming again its berater.
And so it goes until the summer,
with the cruel months behind it.
The skull becomes and beckons
Back into nihil.
But there's too many things to see, places to be
Too much to be and too many places to go
For to be one is to be many and the dew tires.
Written earlier in April. Inspired by T.S. Eliot.
ShyAnne Mar 5
He was walking home
Ticked off with a broken nose
They stole his things
And with no shame
Left cuts and bruises
Head to toe covering him
No one gets his mind
No one really tries
He hides in the closet
When he gets home
In fear of his intoxicated father
His leather belt
Swinging from his fist
The boy cries in bitter isolation
He can't trust anyone
With no safty
He fears for his life
His mother was killed when he was five
Nine years later
He just wants to die
Multiple times he's tried
Every one of them
He survived
His wrists bleed for releaf
His skin pulls tight
Then it's released
He tiptoes out of his room
This for the last time
His father asleep in the chair
He looked pail
His chest barely moving
If you weren't paying attention
You might think he was dead
The boy got an idea
Such a melancholy idea
He went in to his father's quarters
Peaking under the bed
There lay a box full
Unsold meds
A knife in the kitchen would be his weapon
Nothing but a sigh let out
His father was soon to be no more
His heart pounded
His mind thundered
With anger and pride
"This is for Mom!"
He screamed with tears in his eyes
A knife to the chest
He fought the man
Pushing further and harder
He worked fast
The eyes glazed over
Both fear and joy filling his heart
Into the bathtub
Pills in hand
He turns on the water
He uncaps the bottle
Putting it to his lips
Up turned
He sinks down
Letting the drugs take their toll
This was the price
For freedom
For justice
I know it's dark, but then again...
ShyAnne Mar 5
Inside a room somewhere in my mind
I sit alone in the darkness
I can't break through the bars I'm trapped behind
The beat of my pulse constantly racing
A panic rises as I cry
Blood drips down my chin
I stare out at the dark starless sky
all the beast are real
They stalk me in the night
I wait for them to come for me
This to be my last fight
I fake my smile
And pretend I'm fine
A mask so well displayed
Emotion they can't find
I hate this cage
The chains that bind
I scream for a savior
But they can't hear my cry
How do you see
The girl hidden inside her mind
Life in an exoskeleton... FUN TIMES
ShyAnne Mar 3
Freedom of the things that shake me
I'm still stuck in the things that chain me
The hurt that broke and changed me
My heart breaks as they stare at me
Selfish and selfless
Broken and stolen
I drown myself out as I scream from the cage
I choke it down and add to my rage
Help them to save myself from me
It's so hard to be what they want me to be
I stay in my head controlled by my exoskeleton
Encased in a suit of skin that isn't mine
It's scars aren't my own
The voices whisper my disappearance
Cutting me and screaming
Hurting me and crushing my being
Six feet under or walking the earth
What does it matter if it always hurts
Sorry for the realistic drop...
I don't like salt lamps,
(Looking at my salt lamp)
Turn it off then (The voices in my head)
I don't like cola
Stop drinking it then (the voices in my head)
Take home message- never make sense
This was a silly tongue in cheek conversation in my head with my voices. I'm schizophrenic
Alexciya Feb 3
The gurgle of the coffee maker,
The clink of your spoon on the frigid counter,
The sizzle of bacon residue in a frying pan,

and an egg cracking over it.

The murmurs of the news reporters on the tv,
The distant roar of a train in the background,
The dive into sensory pleasure,

while reality dissipates.

The smell of hazelnut creamer and cinnamon,
The taste of a waffle with buttery syrup,
The warm sun on your face through the window,

today is good; today will be different.

The giggles of the waffles and coffee,
The light conversation and hard laughter,
The feeling of home... within them,

a sudden shift in atmosphere.

The sharp loss of appetite
The grieving of what wasn’t lost
The shared remorse for nothing you’ve done

they tell you that you’re pathetic.

The despair in your mug dropping into the table
The swallowed tears and screams
The chaos that covers every square inch of you

distance between you and hope still stands.

The ***** kitchen and your empty stomach
The distressing moonlight that creeps in the window
The anger in thinking you’re liberated this time

sounds of an empty home stir.

The cold seats that have accompanied nobody
The wallowing roar of silence
The jacket of despair that wears you

your average day.
Calla Fuqua Dec 2020
I wish my tactile hallucinations would give me a massage,
A warm hug from my non-existent mother,
A kiss from my long distance boyfriend.

A twisted fairytale

My hallucinations
They know what I fear most
And they want me to be afraid
They feed off my terror
They get off on my sick brain
They know what torments me.
Arachnophobia’s favorite game to play
The spiders
Come out of
My skin
They’ve been waiting patiently
When I’m most vulnerable
When I’m isolated
When I’m helpless

I wish my tactile hallucinations would
**** me
I am not actually suicidal
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