Poetry of thought

isolate

Color on my wrists
Nothing in my head.
All of it around me
I'd rather end up dead.

Another empty promise
But only to myself
The thing with those are
I can't keep them well.

Soon there'll be more color.
More tears to be shed
And yet I'm too afraid
To maybe wind up dead.

And to wake in the morning
I'll have no will to fight
And still internal conflict
I will settle for "what's right"

Differences and alike
Changes and consistency
Never of the same
But still they are a part of me

No thought be of my own.
Those words they speak themselves.
The only thoughts be mine
Are hidden in the shelves.