I scream in anguish,
like my fighting parents.
They act like rivals,
so angry and full of hatred.
They're oblivious to the effects it has on us,
the kids they created with a passion like no other.
They're is no passion in this house anymore.
Just hatred and fear.
There addicted to drugs,
and they're so high they don't think we've noticed.
Trust me we have.
There are needles throughout the house,
and no food in the pantry.
The dishes are pilled ten stories high in the sink.
At night I stay up, unaware of how to help.
I'm tired of the fighting,
still I can't turn them in.
Where else would I go?
Nowhere, I have no one.
For now this hell house is my home.
YOU ARE READING
The struggle
PoésieThis book will be made up of a collection of my works, written during a period of time in which i suffered extreme depression. These poems will talk about, anorexia, bulimia, self-harm, schizophrenia, anxiety, and a few other things. If you or anyon...
