Fighting for survival.
Maybe am fighting for sanity,
The loud noises in the back of my head,
Loud they go.
So I put on the music,
The rythm has become my home,
My place.I have been floating,
Round and round in circles.
Same point I begun,
Sometimes, I think I don't deserve-
Hope.
Maybe it's these thought that death is peace,
And silence.Life after death,
I play with this thought,
My hands flickering.
The flashes run a maze in head,
Dead, death.
The black and white flashes,
The constant reminder of me-
Myself, my past.It all comes around at last.
I can't let go,
probably, won't let go,
I need a hand.
Or I can fight this on my own,
Few steps.
Few sips,
Am off the trinch.
The taste fades my lips.I lay down and I'm back in this trip.
"Oh well, this is what we are",
He whispers slowly.
I say, "please stop,
Get out my head,
I need my peace,
I need you to leave",
He says back,
"I am you, and you are me, haha,
Such a loser.
Look at yourself,
Look at the mirror,
So broken.
So lost".The next two scenes are about a broken heart...
YOU ARE READING
THE WILLOW TREE
PoetryIt's a struggle for my sanity through a moment of rage and out of space, psychetry is my build as I layer my truths, it's a journey, the second trip