Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Estella Jan 18
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...
Pranav Nov 2020
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.
Naveen Malhotra Oct 2020
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.
Armand-DeamoJC Sep 2020
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 *****
Neetika Sharma Apr 2020
A plain featureless face lacking dimension.
Overwrought with a loud expression.

If I didn't have a mouth, people could still have whole conversations with me.

Clenched teeth turn into prison bars.
Incarcerated words mimic desperate inmates pleading guilty.

My tongue violently detaches itself and resorts to levitate.
Capable of only tasting a warm and overwhelming sense of irrelevance.

It curls itself up in corners It hadn't felt before until it dissolves in its own shame.
I'm still new at writing so I'm sorry if this seems incomplete or not well formed.
I'll try my best.
Aurél Apr 2020
the open arms of my beloved
will welcome me no more
the coffee iris
shan't lay it's grace
onto my pathetic capsuled being

i have seen the passion fade
the laugh die away in the distance
i have to keep my distance
shame me

i am but a shell
of rotting flesh
and boiling blood
decomposing consumed meat and grass

i have been boiled down to the bones
that keep me intact
with the space and time
i wanted to banish myself from

being pushed to the limits
of my insanity and mortal body
imfinethanksforasking
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.
Iska Feb 2020
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?
Colyskie Nov 2019
all night I'm wide awake
these feelings I can never fake
the emptiness, the nothingness
tearing me apart in darkness

half asleep and I'm in this portal
everything seems like crucial
vexations are turning on
emotions i can't hold on

it all comes down in one setting
narrow, shallow and i'm panting
obscure and i cannot comprehend
so vague that I cannot see the end

floating away with my dreams
all the hurt and all the screams
trapped in this four cornered wall
linked to my own shadow; left with nothing at all
the struggles of having anxiety.
Tori Schall Oct 2019
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.
Next page