It's a tornado raging in my head,
So loud that I sometimes wonder if people live in my head.
They warn me, I defy their whispers,
Then they mock me when I stumble in darkness.
I now understand an addict's desperation for drugs,
The hunger that gnaws at their soul like a famished beast.
For in a desperate pursuit to silence them,
I've turned to poetry,
A perfect escape that comes with a price.
Overthinking, making up scenarios in my head,
I hurt people from it, then I hurt me.
It was the perfect combo,
I feel, then I write, and sometimes I conjure an emotion, then I write what I want the world to see,
But at sometime I realized,
I never write what I need them to see,
Me, trapped in a glass box, suffocating,
Their hands wrapped around my throat.
With voices screaming around me,
I'm shaking, desperate to shatter this prison.
But I'm unable to do so,
How can something so fragile become so unbreakable?
In desperation,
I turn back to the shadows for guidance,
But at a price,
a piece of my soul, a fragment of my heart,
For some words that might set me free,
I give in easily and begin to write.
Now I'm closing in on the end of my book,
And I need a new one to write,
But I have nothing left to give them,
For they've owned every part of me,
And I've lost control of me,
That I just write whatever they want me to,
I shouldn't have let them get to me in the first place,
And whatever promises they made before,
I shouldn't have taken them to heart.
