You don’t respond And there I sit and wonder What did I do wrong? The doubts shoot into my heart Like bullets Ripping away my flesh I feel numb And the tears flow down my cheeks I know I shouldn’t feel like this But I feel the pain of knowing how worthless I am
I’m not good enough for anyone Even tho I try I’m so easily forgotten So easily passed by I don’t make others happy No matter how hard I try
They say I’m not the only one But at the end of the day It’s just me crying alone At least I won’t waste your time At least you can just forget about me So I will never bother you...
Candles blow. They die out. The fire does and consumes the candle with it. The fire was the highlight. Now it’s gone- And the candle suddenly lost its worth and value. It now lays grief-stricken And attached to the floor. Refusing to let go of their places in the show. It let illumination enter our world. And now it’s dead. We scrape its place from the floor. Scraping away at its existence. For this one now and forevermore.
Of late I have realised We shouldn't Spread negativity Howsoever justified We may be Expressing our Negative feelings Of worthlessness Uselessness Of life Relieving Our inside After all We all have A social responsibility If we can't Mitigate suffering Alleviate pain From people's life Atleast We shouldn't Encourage them Embrace melancholy And depression Triggering Life threatening Obsession
Life is precious. Save it. THIS POEM IS FOR THOSE WHO MAY HAVE SEEN THE WORST IN LIFE, BUT ARE MENTALLY STABLE AND HAVE NO SERIOUS MENTAL HEALTH ISSUES. JUST TO SHOW POETIC ACUMEN IS NOT DESIRABLE.
On the floor again Unconscious again I'm screaming for help again Dad's working again You have no memory again The neighbors took us to the hospital again Everyone knows your bipolar now Everyone thinks my mom's crazy She's not. Why do I have to fight to convince myself she's not. Mom why do you give up? Mom what's wrong!? Mom is it us? Mom is it dad? Mom what happened? WHY DON'T YOU WANT TO LIVE? The beeping monitor disturbed my thoughts And there you were again Yourself, with eyes wide open And a weak body once more Being told what you did to *yourself
My mother was diagnosed with bipolar disorder 9 years ago. I found this in one of my books I used to read beside her bed. She takes her meds these days, but my whole life I thought it was my birth or the way my sister and I treat each other that triggered her, but it was her own childhood of being beated and *****
I can't live anymore, Breathe anymore, think clearly anymore. Be happy for a brief moment, that's when you try to own it. What component in it is hopeless? What percentage of it is worth it? What factor damaged my purpose? What is my purpose? Sure I make one up, watch it grow, watch it flourish. But how do I continue that purpose? How do I not give up and feel worthless. I already feel that way, but I think you've heard this. Maybe you didn't. I did. Too many times. It's carved into my skin.
It’s so weird... discovering how fragile ones mentality is...I have always expressed that it’s ok to need to live for something else when you can’t find the ability to live for yourself. So you do your best to build stability and optimism all while you feel like you are shattering one crack at a time. So what were to happen if what you are living for is jeopardized? Would you break completely or simply find something else to live for? What if it was the ONLY thing that you could live for in that moment? At times when I cannot bare to live for myself I live for my plants. They would not survive without me therefore I must keep going or they would not make it. The problem for living for something that’s alive is what would happen if that thing were to die? If the petals were to wilt and the stems drop and the flowers fade? What happens when your life has crashed and imploded at catastrophic proportions and the only thing to survive the disaster turns out to be dying? When every thing is going wrong and you are shattering one crack at a time and all you can live for are your plants then a massive crack splits you into a thousand little pieces and the only thing holding you together has began to shrivel along with your mentality. What am I to do now?
My thoughts smash through my skull, bursting forth with a stream of words that I can neither control nor stop. Why was I created this way? It is still never what I want to say. No, that is reserved for the paper in which I spend my days hiding in. Diving into the endless recesses of my mind to scratch and dig and pick out a single strand of pain that filters through the rest of my body, so that I can feel raw and unbridled as I scratch ink on the paper in a scrawl that is nearly ineligible not even I can read it. So instead I let my fingers go numb from gliding across keys, so that all may hear my scream instead of taking that pen and inking my arm in red, red ink. So much ink that it passes my skin and bleeds into my veins just to mingle with the blood and flow back out in rejection of all that I was, and all that I am.