There are five different voices in my head and each one of them silently screams; I wish I were dead. Let me tell you about these thoughts that visit almost (hiiiii :v) nightly, why most likely I'm insane. God I hope this painful revelation doesn't go in vein. Because its hard for me to open up, a shaky foundation, im broken up, inside when I try to hide these lies I promulgate to my friends when they question my life upon a shelf, when, when will this end? But truth is I hate myself. Not physically but spiritually, mentally,often periodically. Two second chances as my eye dances over to that razor, where is he, where is my savior?
These five voices,they come in waves, haunting to my grave, choices of giving up. Because I've given up. I really want this to stop.
But you see, when you're up two in the morning,writing poems because all you know is mourning and it's dawnimg on me that i might be, really insane.
I don't know where to run again.
To show you anything else would mean to strip, myself of flesh and blood, as i roll my sleeves up and dont stop till they get the chance to gawk at every last cut. Forearms freshly stained in scars of self inflicted pains. Yes this is me,changed, correction, this was me. I am now wholefully the same, still entirely deranged.
Until i stumble upon one so conceited in dreams that seems almost impossible to achieve with a nobody like me. She helps me fight these blaspheming urges, suicide surges through my body and I am dead alive. Live free or die, and I don't mean the literal sense, death in itself is a consequence, she says as she sells these promising dreams that freedom seems to immerse from. And with every stroke of her pen tip, she slips these words of passion within the deepest darkest depths of my domain, soothing my acid rain of storm clouds hiding behind an illuminating surface of a face,there she is..finite as constellations, my eternal amber, an inextinguishable flame.
YOU ARE READING
The Life of Mr.2_
PoetryI used to have this pen, this pen that would relate everything i couldn't say, everything I wanted to say. This pen that gave me confidence, this pen that made sense of everything, strokes that would sing the keys my vocal chords strained to screech...
