Poetry

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I am on the surface
Gasping for air that I so badly need
The demons pull my wrists and legs,
my head tossed back
Screaming loudly I can see
the future
I can feel
New York, París, Colorado, and Venice
Cabs, cafes, canyons, canals
Quick flashes in my soul
A little hope
Before I am once again writhing
in the brown, murky water

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The sky salivates
Like men I can’t name
Just a drip
Just a drop
Show some skin
Hide your pain,
—————–mistress night
Flaunting your moonbeams
Are you alright
—————-in this cold autumn,
mistress night?

I suppose
There’s not much of a choice
Forever under that sky, pressed down
———–you’ve lost your voice,
mistress night

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Poets write best
When tired
_________drunk
_____________high
Blood flow slows
Sloshes around
In the head
Ideas mixing with it
What is poetry
but sloshed ideas
and slashed wrists?

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any day i cut myself.
the feeling before, angry. very depressing and worried.
stressed or otherwise. and you cut.
you cut because you are scared of something, to tell
somebody something.

before i became aware that i had some sense, i would
cut myself, itch and wipe off the blood i saw.
at the very first, i would try to hide it. soon though,
that task became too time-consuming. then others
had to see my cuts, neighbors asking questions.

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Drops into the sink
Blending into the water
Staining it with the thoughts I think
Resting in it’s clearness a crimson disease
Drowning my pains temporarily

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My heart stops in an instant;
I begin to feel weak.
I try to move my legs but can’t;
I can no longer speak.

I collapse to the floor
and slowly whither away.
My entire body feels sore;
it’s starting to decay.

No longer thinking of the grief,
nor wishing to think at all,
I lie in my blood awaiting relief
against the bathroom wall.

My consciousness begins to evanesce,
my breath begins to slow.
Awaiting my death to progress
as the blood continues to flow.

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I’ve clipped my own wings,
I can no longer fly.
You can’t see the truth;
my face is a lie.

My facade is plain -
it hides my addiction -
exposed by my tears
is a growing contradiction -

Depression is a bliss -
without it I’m nothing;
addicted to sorrow -
loving my suffering -

Wanting true happiness -
empty without pain;
confusion and chaos
eroding my brain.

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I am dying slowly,but no one can tell.
It is a quiet, painful death,
riddled with anger.
Rage has become my outlet now,
where there used to be silence and shutting down.
It will be my final stage,
as there is nothing to bargain, no way to accept.

You can never cry enough tears,
they are an endless stream.
Mental Illness.
That phrase is a dirty, hateful thing to comprehend.
I do not accept it,
thinking all my troubles come from pain in the past,
not from the diagnoses in the now.
But there it is, nonetheless,
and it spits it’s nasty agenda in my face.

The hospital visits are coming all too often now,
as I seem to lose control.
Involuntary now,
they say I must go,
and I have no way to stop them.
There are tricks and traps in the system that I cannot beat.
And the drugs,
there are more and more of them all the time.
I don’t want them.
I comfort myself with the sight of blood,
the sureness of pain.
That only makes them think I am sicker.
I am not sick,
I am scared and alone with no one to trust.
So they label me, rather than know me,
medicate me, rather than love me.

The pain is like a slow trickle inside,
dripping down until one day,
there will be no more.
Then I will fall asleep f

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Everyday she wakes up,
Hoping it will be a little better
Everyday she looks in the mirror,
Hoping to be a little thinner.
Everyday she goes out and faces the world,
Hoping it will be a little more accepting.

At the end of the day she realizes, it’s not going to get any better,
she’s not going to get any thinner, and the world will never accept her
for who she is.

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She’s beautiful, so delicate
Pale, skin like porcelain
Long, silky hair
Built like a dancer
Her voice, musical and beautiful
But inside she’s dying

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