"diagnostic" poems
Good Day spoken in a bad austrailian accent
bad juju voodoo clear light poltergeist on disablity
Hoarding every scrap of miserable memories attached to trash
your apartment is a holiday for nightmares and childmolesters
******* magazines, old sanitary napkins , bad vhs movies
lay like dead soldiers waiting for the war to end
Black bags and boxes scattered every where are villages to rats
and every unknown pestilence you can only read about in medical textbooks.
half eaten pizzas covered in pickles dried up sadly looking at empty pills
You have no hold on me I can't understand your pain nor will i listen to your overdramatic ******** about whoever
or scheming to defraud Walmart
Your mutilation is a scar spelling sociopathic miscreant child trapped in an old mismatched shell of no clear gender.
Your diagnostic prophecies from the dsm5 dismissed like school on a snow day.
Will commands the unentanglement
uncurse
unfear
dispell all your contradictions accusations monologrhthyms
bad music choices and echoes of muttered mustard.
only truth will be uplifted
Peace be with you
whereever you are currently infesting enjoy your dora the explorer ice cream
Was there ever a floor in here?
Mar 25, 2010
Mar 25, 2010 at 12:53 AM UTC
I think I am going insane.
the definition of insanity
in·san·i·ty
/inˈsanədē/
noun
insanity:
the state of being seriously mentally ill; madness
now madness
it is simply a synonym of insanity
and insane is an adjective, which is describing my state
and using it in the form of a noun, would be insanity
'"diagnostic of insanity"
how does any of this make sense
what has brought me to be in a state of insanity
I mull over it
I always come to the conclusion
it is simply life
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 10:40 PM UTC
At the age of nine he wanted to die
which was something I couldn't understand
because I knew our mother loved us.
desperation so
doctors drill diagnostic decisions down his throat.
I pray he won't choke on the
shallow pills he has to swallow
hollow dreams he has to follow.
Sedating's seductive for families who can afford it.
The Founding Fathers have forged my future,
they've mocked my freedom and cashed in on humans.
America likes to revive our problems with the quickest fix, money solves it.
My brothers become another lab rat
to solidify the fact that these pills are legit.
Simply because his name appears on a list.
Ignoring the fact his original pain was nothing but a claim
against all of this cultural ********
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 1:25 PM UTC
sticks and stones
may break my bones
(but words will never hurt me)
people stare when we hold hands, they glare and point and scream in whispers behind cupped palms. sometimes they applaud or congratulate us, but i hate that, too; i don't want to be brave or strong or special i just want to kiss you without glancing left and right first. boys in parking lots shout and whistle, cars honk but WE'RE RUBBER YOU'RE GLUE, IT BOUNCES OFF US AND STICKS TO YOU so guess what- you're the ***** you're the ******* you're the freaks, you have to change the pronouns in your poetry, you are afraid of churches, you were listed in The Diagnostic And Statistical Manual Of Mental Disorders as a "sociopathic personality disturbance" until its seventh edition. if i had a nickel for every time a mother hurried a child away from us on the street, i might have enough money to sue one or two of you for harassment and hate.
s.h.
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 2:35 PM UTC
Dear DSM,
There is so much I want to say to you!
There is so much you ought to know!
You who live high up on medical Olympus,
You who live so that others may also live,
You who look down on us mere mortals,
You who look around and all you see is misery,
You who stand above the dark clouds of our minds,
You who stand for all that is noble,
Tell me, is my name written on your pale-white page?
Tell me everything is going to be OK!
There is so much I want to say to you!
There is so much you ought to know!
You who hold the secret alchemy of melancholy,
You who hold the keys to life and death,
You who preach a gospel of salvation,
You who preach though not all heed the call,
You who sing a song for the broken,
You who sing our song,
Tell me, will my soul be saved?
Tell me everything is going to be OK!
There is so much I want to say to you!
There is so much you ought to know!
I who long for your protection,
I who long ago gave up hope,
I who waited all my life for answers,
I who waited in long New York winters cloaked in bitter fear,
I am here now to testify,
I am here now my soul to cry!
tell me, what have you to say?
Tell me everything is going to be OK!
There is so much I want to say to you!
There is so much you ought to know!
We who float adrift along the edge of the abyss,
We now live while tomorrow no one knows,
We who wear many, many faces, though all are faded,
We who crowd the halls of hospitals and slaughterhouses,
We who call ourselves survivors while we still can,
We who are hopeless, helpless, sleepless and blue,
Tell me, who are we to blame?
Tell me everything is going to be OK!
There is so much I want to say to you!
There is so much you ought to know!
All things that must be said and done,
All things will fall into place at last,
All things we’ve salvaged, and all that we’ve lost,
All things we’ve left behind,
All these things that I must say to you now!
All these things you really ought to know!
Tell me now, will this voice be heard someday?
Tell me everything is going to be OK!
Dear DSM,
Until then,
THE END.
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 2:58 PM UTC
Not the kind of sick that can be cured by prescriptions.
No amount of sleep can cure it.
The diagnostic isn't a cold or the flu.
This is the kind of sick that stays with you forever.
Even after it leaves you ,
You will always remember.
This is not something that will go away over night or a few days.
Closing your eyes doesn't make it hurt any less.
The pain is more the skin-deep.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 11:18 AM UTC
Like Winston Smith,
I think it’s time to start a diary.
Follow me now: it’s April in Oceania,
The cruelest month,
The silly season, printemps,
A regular I see London, I see France.
I see Winston’s Underpants.
If you catch my drift?
La Primavera: Vivaldi’s rocking the
Juke box and the vote, Botticelli’s painting,
A mural on Jerusalem's wailing wall.
My diary will be hard evidence of thought crime.
Thought crime: one of the more severe varieties of
Religious experience & the most psychotic form of mental illness,
In a category known as antisocial personality disorders.
Thought crime means never getting into any serious trouble,
Until you’re caught, can we at least agree on that?
So, we'd better add the DSM to our stack of essential literary classics.
The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders,
Published by the American Psychiatric Association,
Providing a common language,
A shrink’s Esperanto.
DSM-IV codes classify mental disorders.
The DSM: a Frommer’s travel guide &
User’s manual for life on planet Earth.
So, like Orwell's Winston, I start a diary of my own; but
Unlike Mr. Smith, I address my message to the here &
What’s happening now, not the future, not the past but
N-a-zayer, N-a-zither NOW.
That's right, I write for the present:
“If thought was ever free, it is not free now."
If truth exists it is a closely guarded secret,
Although McLuhan’s observations hide in plain sight:
*“The new electronic interdependence, recreates
The world in the image of a global village.”*
Which makes us all global village idiots.
We are no longer different from one another;
The age of groupthink is here.
I write to you from an age of security & surveillance,
Warrantless search and predator drones,
An age where no man is ever truly alone.
From an age of standardization, replaceable parts,
Whirling dervishes, dabblers in spin control,
Newspeak and doublespeak,
Atlas shrugged, drugged and fugged,
The new world order:
All but the faint of heart need apply, …
"I send greetings.”
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 3:56 PM UTC
Diagnostic- Unknown
Perhaps another cause of unknown blues
Induced by memories clenching to nerves
Fondling the withered mind
Withering...
withering...
withering away.
Fusing to her pores
Recycled from a whiff of intoxicated breath
Nails coated with anxiety
Eyes, dazed, drug heavy-peaking.
****** appetite?- unaffected
Patient rationality?- Logical
Distressed, but unnoticeable
Lost, but optimistically searching
Health History?- Discreet
Just a mere case of teenage disillusion
Nerves?- Resonating memory-filled-synapes
Lungs?- Intoxicated
Lips?- Sealed shut
Pores?- Perspiring nostalgia
Heart? Misunderstood emptiness
unknown ache
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 10:00 AM UTC
"What are you thinking about now?" he asked,
across the table,
over the empty plates,
into the silence of an unfinished conversation.
"Is it normal to be terrified?" I want to say.
And when will writing not feel like assembling a jigsaw puzzle
where all the pieces are gray,
or like being in a country with nothing but
out of date currency?
But no words come,
or maybe it was all the wrong words—
I don't remember.
What I remember is this:
With tired eyes and a precise, compassionate voice,
he looked at me and said,
"Fear is a useful diagnostic tool."
And then, when we got up from the table,
he took my wine glass, not quite empty of a good Chilean red,
put it to his lips,
and drank it.
Feb 15, 2010
Feb 15, 2010 at 11:54 AM UTC
They speak today of pheromones and genes
When trying to account for such a state
Most often seen in young folk, in their teens
Or in their twenties, signalling a mate.
They would not think a man turned fifty-eight
Should be a candidate for such a blast
Of chemicals, or genes, or luck, or fate,
To blow him forty years back to his past.
His family and friends would be aghast
To hear their wrinkled sage bay at the moon
And warble that he’d found “the one” at last,
And call him “fool”, or worse, “romantic loon.”
But they don’t know because they were not there
To breathe the lethal darkness of your hair.
Feb 15, 2010
Feb 15, 2010 at 5:52 PM UTC
For the low low price of just being within' earshot,
the conversation analyst will run a full diagnostic on your conversation.
You know how that perfect comeback
feels, three weeks after
You didn't say it?
In training, representatives for Inbound sales listen to recordings of their own phone calls and critique them like Art majors in a studio class.
Our conversation analyst.
Looks at you like a shoe on the wall.
Unlike the psychology major, the conversation analyst will never share his results.
He'll just judge you.
Silently.
He doesn't speak.
His fourth grade english teacher taught him that the carpenters house is never finished.
She was referring to her husband, the carpenter, not finishing the renovations on their new home, but the conversation analyst heard it as a metaphor, and adopted it as a universal truth.
Much like a painting controls the path your eye travels the canvas, or the scientific process that goes into composing music,
the way you build rapport is one of those things that people don't realize can be an art form until they wittness it professionally.
Our conversation analyst considers himself Socio-passionate.
Which amuses him, when he deducts points from your conversation for not empathizing correctly.
Or not giving effective compliments by asking a relevant question afterwards.
The conversation analyst is not always mute. On special occasions such as first impressions he is a fine conversationalist.
You can meet the conversation analyst for the first time, as many times as you want.
If the carpenters house is never finished.
The conversation analyst
exemplar at listening,
Will never hear you.
Feb 5, 2018
Feb 5, 2018 at 6:26 PM UTC
This fine young brood, the native athletes have arrived
We rise, we rise!
To justify great minds and the since forgotten dreamers
Have we arrogance enough to stand, hands clasped
or are we yet more stepping stones for thought?
We tip-tap diagnostic prose on angelic keys
and work as a unit to enrich newer minds
Before we too retreat to darker corners
And I too saunter with relative pace
and catch your casual eye
Struggling to conclude its motive
and hoping to embrace the future.
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 4:52 PM UTC
The first lesson they teach us in EMT class
Is to never lose our compassion,
Never forget that every patient is
A human being with a story, a family, a life.
They tell us to keep our emotions in check
But to never lose our respect,
The trust in the competency and freedom of choice,
For we are the link of survival
On the worst day of their lives.
We were not there to know the reason that led
Up to the call,
But we are there to get them through the danger that followed.
Why then does the text book instruct us to abandon our respect,
Abandon the presumption of humanity
At the mere thought of the words 'developmental disability?'
Why do the words Autism and Down Syndrome suddenly
Make it okay to condescend and patronize as if to a child,
To infantilize an adult whose intelligence we are not qualified to assume?
Why is it my duty to respect a neurotypical patient
And my job to abandon it for the developmentally disabled?
I wonder if they would encourage my peers to treat me the same?
After all, who cares that I am top of the class and squad leader to boot?
Who cares that I answer the most questions or scored highest on the test?
I am autistic. I am considered less than human.
No.
The textbook is wrong,
Primitive despite being updated in 2018.
Respect every patient means Respect ALL,
No exceptions,
No diagnostic caveats.
'First, do no harm.'
Treat with empathy and compassion.
It is their own inhumanity that prevents them
From recognizing the humanity inside us,
The developmentally challenged.
I live on planet Autism,
Population 1 in 59,
No less of a person than any other,
Perhaps more human really.
That humanity is the force behind my First Responder drive.
Do not deign to treat me as small child or foreign planet inhabitant.
Forget the basis in the archaic.
Respect and compassion for all cannot be checked at the door.
I am not less than.
My struggles have, if anything,
Forced me to become more.
Oct 11, 2019
Oct 11, 2019 at 2:50 AM UTC
Full of doubt. About survival of the species and my own.
A plague of tent caterpillars, worse than an infestation,
an insurgency that has left the sky naked, bones revealed,
trees knee deep in webbing.
Another way to look at it: The caterpillars have opened up
the understory. It's not a form of terrorism,
it's an opportunity for otherwise repressed species
to assert genetic relevance.
A scientist gets out among the ticks and webs, observes
the march of barberries up the watershed, mustards spread
in tire treads, and hidden among this mess of invasives,
a jalopy of a hunter's roost.
Beer cans are also diagnostic. Inwood Park,
dog **** and abandoned cars, yet a copper beech around
which
Indians camped. The broken asphalt and Spanish language.
Humanity followed time there.
When I see a fox, a coyote or a bear, I think What Good
Luck
to be made of clay and alive this year. If I saw a cougar
I would not know what to do. It would change my life,
like an archaic torso of Apollo.
Look for the silver lining. Walk on the sunny side of the street.
Count your blessings. Life goes on. A little better every day in
every way.
You can't take it with you. It's only money. People who need
people are
the luckiest beetles in the world.
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 9:40 AM UTC
Hypertension
not to mention
higher cholesterol
Stress?
I would think the older one got
the less one got it
sadly not so.
I go amongst the meek and mild
a happy child but wild inside where
mustangs range and ride
under my skin,
breathe, hold, release
repeat
until the voices cease.
yeah,
that'll work well won't it?
when you're ******* in dioxins,
toxins,
we're just rocks in
the pond and sinking, I'm
fond of saying it and
don't you know it,
London in its abandon has
abandoned me,
shoddy practise from the Metropolis
where they're adept at
taking the ****
did I mention hypertension?
a thousand phobias and 'isms,
spasms and a constant tic
it
makes me sick
Doctor's on the missing list
have missed me off the patient list
and
now I really am ****** off, but
it's Sunday and a day of rest
I'll try my best to smile and say
have a happy day today.
Jan 7, 2017
Jan 7, 2017 at 11:24 PM UTC
'Doctor, well the problem is...
I can't get 'it' up...
' confessed the man, embarrassingly.
'Would this be...all the time...or just in the bedroom?'
pondered the doctor.
'See, I really only get 'it' up once a day,
just before lunch, actually, and if the wife isn't on it right then and there.....then I'd have to wait 'till the following day.....
it's the choice between
********** or having a warm sausage' he said
'Well, don't fret' assured the doctor
'I get this exact compliant more then you'd think'
'Oh?' the man sounded, feeling less shame now.
The doctor peered through his glasses
'But I'll need to see a photograph'.
The man's eyelids opened wide and wild.
'.......of your wife' finished the doctor.
'You need to?...what?' asked the man.
'Oh yes,I'll need to see what you're working with here'
answered the doctor,
'I mean,before an accurate diagnostic can be made' he said,
saving himself.
The man produced his wallet and showed the doctor a wedding photograph.
'A current photo' the doctor said.
'Ah,yes,that does make more sense' said the man.
He took his phone from his jacket pocket and
showed the doctor his wallpaper with his wife's full figure in it.
The doctor looked for a moment and then said
'well, I'm afraid all the drugs in the world aren't going to help to you'.
-J.F.N.
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 5:48 PM UTC
I wrote the best for u but i lost it, whats the diagnostic? Maybe i'll wake up for once , so i can trust myself to recreate it, poetry lacks focus so if you can figure me out so easily then your not my motive, its the very reason for living to search for our enigma that got me open. Perfected by nature, a sculpture in which she is Medusa I froze up when your friend introduced us. Can't find yourself? You say your lost in my mind, the horror that is the catacombs is where I find you,
you forgot about time, just like I did, now we know what trust is......Your intimidated by me and I'm intimidated by you.
Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 3:38 PM UTC
all too frequently
there are days
you could spew the most blatant lies
“George Washington never existed”
“Two plus two is twelve”
“I love you for you”
“There’s no reason to rebel”
and I’d believe you
It’s not that I’m gullible
it’s that I’m stubborn.
I have to be right
but I’m full of self doubt.
So when I can’t believe my thoughts
and I think I’ve forgotten my name
you can tell me I’m bad
and I’ll take all the blame.
I know nothing.
I believe not at all.
I could recite you
all the qualifying characteristics
in the diagnostic statistical manual volume five
for depression
and narcissistic personality disorder
I can explain clinically
chemical dependency
and I can recite the twelve steps from memory.
Hell, I remember some math formulas
and my teacher’s name from fourth grade
but say “tell me about yourself”
and all certainty will decay.
I know nothing.
I believe not at all.
Karl Marx said religion is the ***** of the people
I never believed in god
maybe that’s why I turned to the needle.
You’ll say everything happens for a reason
which in my proper mindset I won’t believe in
but blaming my overt destruction
on third party destiny
I know deep down is false,
but so comforting to believe.
I know nothing.
I believe not at all.
Did I love you?
Did I even feel at all?
It doesn’t even matter
it was still me that took the fall.
I still have no self-assurance
or any concept of who I want to be
no god, no friends, I beg no lover
will figure this out for me.
Maybe this is who I am,
metamorphosing ghost
with a crooked smile
shaping who I am today
knowing it'll all be gone
before I can say
I know
I believe
what my brain is telling me
not so desperate to please
no longer begging on my knees
for the false ideal of certainty
because I’ll know
I know with confidence
the simple facts;
I know nothing.
I believe not at all.
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 11:09 PM UTC
I told the doctor
my heart felt like a flip phone
set to vibrate
in the back pocket of my jeans—
buzzing between spine
and tenth-grade desk,
shaking my bones
like a train no one saw coming—
except me.
I could feel my pulse
gathering its coat, like it had somewhere to be.
He said I was within diagnostic range.
He said I was presenting as stable.
I said I felt like a girl
screaming
inside a library.
They said:
What a beautiful metaphor.
I said:
It’s not a metaphor.
It’s a girl.
She’s in there.
She’s still screaming.
And they nodded,
said I seemed self-aware—
like that settles that.
They wrote “no cause for concern”
in my file.
The room was quiet.
The library was loud.
My heart is still vibrating.
I feel it—
right there, between spine and desk.
No one picks up.
Apr 24, 2025
Apr 24, 2025 at 11:26 AM UTC
I've stood in the lobbies,
Drinking crap coffees,
In churches, schools and theaters.
There's mingling talk of the topic
Involving a paradigm shift,
A segue too smooth to resist.
A new diagnostic, a new way that's better,
Although the old one's not gathered dust yet.
A new guideline, a revised playbook,
An updated prayer book,
An all new look, an all newer look;
And the newest look's coming out next.
Closer to platonic perfection.
*I should feel slighted.
Babies shouldn't rock sideways.
Bacon tastes good, is good.
The surgery is booked.
The schools are over-cooked.*
The dais is lit. The crowd shuffles to sit,
The auditorium dims, we're all in,
And everyone knows the speaker by name.
Jan 5, 2018
Jan 5, 2018 at 9:36 AM UTC
Let me sit quietly in this house,
The early hours as the sun rises, casting shadows to show duality and warmth to show us love.
A bright blue sky to clear our minds.
But soon I'll be on my way.
Jumping between pages,
A shattered memory and a broken rib,
We burnt out the place my mind used to be,
Left ash piles and Polaroid pictures with little tiny people saved in an instant.
A memory of a meloncholy mood drifting up from my mind as my heart beats faster,
This anxiety is turning my Polaroids into matchsticks, my gut into a butterfly cage.
An ant in the headlights of a car, doesn't think what make and model the car is,
Yet I see my fears, my ghosts and my life and I can't help but be dragged on stage with them,
Analyse them and pester them, taking notes like it's my job, and writing until the voices in my head might finally be quiet.
I guess if I can't quiet my head, I'll leave it instead.
Say goodbye to this cigarette wasteland, with cherries and bongs.
This pyscotic diagnostic of a funny story I once heard, blended together until the lumps come out.
Well he's never been able to deal with himself, his mind, his monsters.. so you'll have to excuse him as he dives into concrete swimming pools, and tries to jump over houses to no avail.
Well he sees his floors in other people's houses, and feels anxious and scared.
You see, we don't like what's wrong with us, so we hide it and lock it away.
But if no one can see them how can they help?
You tell your children they're beautiful,
But it's only because they're your creation.
This is a problem with the world, we never tell anyone how beautiful they are,
So we all just sit like rhinos on mountain tops,
Defensive positions, walls up, guns loaded.
Until that one Disney butterfly flutters by, distracting some as they're drawn to it as it floats down stream and saves them from themselves.
May 19, 2018
May 19, 2018 at 2:30 PM UTC
It’s one of those nights…
You end up lying in your bed,
making eye contact with the ceiling,
random feelings running through your mind.
You’re thinking that they can easily be part of a great poem –
one that you’ve always wanted to write,
one that will make you proud – probably the only REAL poem that you’ll be able to write in your life.
You start to get cold.
You get up and fetch an extra blanket. And some thicker pajamas.
You get all curled up in your attempt to fall asleep.
You are still cold.
Maybe you’re dying!?!
You take your phone and google sudden death symptoms
Chest Pain.
Breathlessness.
Palpitations.
Dizziness.
Fainting.
Nothing about being cold.
Maybe you’re finally becoming an adult and you’re transforming into this cold blood grown-up that doesn’t give a **** about anything
anyone has to say.
Yeah! That must be it!
You turn and turn and turn
and end up on your stomach,
smothering an old pillow under your right arm and
your inability to become someone under the other one.
Sleep refuses to penetrate you,
even though you’ve clearly sent him signals across the table all night long.
You even laughed at all his jokes,
you touched his knee,
you’ve certainly made yourself available to him!
Nothing!
You get blue dreams.
Huge, round, wide awake dreams,
Filled up with testosterone and lust.
It’s 3.34 AM.
At this point, you’re in the bathroom,
Eating up the latest Ikea catalogue.
Tomorrow, you will wake up alone in your head,
like a polaroid picture that gets stuck inside the big camera –
you will wake up without falling asleep.
Tomorrow is today.
You get in the shrink’s office without knocking.
What’s wrong? he says.
You don’t answer.
He looks at the quiet version of you for an entire hour
and comes up with a diagnostic for your problem.
He even writes it down so you wouldn’t forget:
Dream Paralysis - Powerlessness of imagining true life. Impossibility of living fake dreams every day.
Am I right?
You don’t answer.
He isn’t right.
You aren’t alright.
You pay up and go.
Poker would have been fairer for you at this point.
***** it!
You get back home.
You’re tired of trying to fall asleep so you decide to climb.
You’ll try to get on top of your dreams
and sleep won’t try to **** you in any other position!
Tonight’s gonna be one of those nights...
This is gonna be one of those poems.
Sep 7, 2017
Sep 7, 2017 at 11:46 AM UTC
A feeling of migraines meant its stress,
But one time it meant a sign of something wrong
A feeling of confusion meant being forgetful,
A feeling of exhaustion meant not enough sleep,
But one time it meant all the energy was drained
But one time it meant the brain isnt thinking properly
A feeling of being sick meant its just the flu,
But one time it meant a diagnostic
Visitation at the hospital meant the strength will pick back up,
But one time it meant the weakness took over
Visitation at the hospital meant hope for getting back to normal,
But one time it meant praying for good health
Visitation at the hospital meant everything would be ok,
But one time it meant the worse is yet to come
Coming home meant no more worries
But one time, it meant that there was nothing more that could have been done
Coming home meant happiness
But one time it meant sadness
Coming home meant get some rest
But one time it meant going to sleep forever
Coming home meant recovering
But it actually meant dying..
Jan 6, 2021
Jan 6, 2021 at 4:45 AM UTC
In this waiting room
My legs are shaking
My thoughts are spinning around
Waiting for my name to be called
For the solution to start
Standing outside the door
I take a deep breath
Knock knock
"Come in"
Voice inside answers
"What brought you here today?"
I've been practising this line for weeks but my voice still sounds shaken
"I need help, don't know what else to do"
I say, as I roll up my sleeves
A quick look and the expected question
"What lead you to that?"
I take a few moments to get myself together
I know this question was going to come
I try to explain what I don't understand myself
Tears roll down my eyes
I try to speak
My throat is sore
I can barely breath
He writes away on his computer
Occasionally looking at me
I wonder what he is typing?
What he is thinking?
I look at my fresh lines on my wrists
A crimson red that I learn to love and hate
"I'll give you some happy pills, it will make you feel a lot better"
I look at the bottle filled with little pills
That suppose to make me feel better
After three days
All the sadness
The despair
The anger is gone
But so is all the emotions
I feel like a zombie
I feel numb
I feel dead inside
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 12:28 PM UTC