Diary of an Insomniac [Collection of Poems]

Struggling

It was a battle that was hard to fight,

A lone warrior in the cold night,

Her weapon a blade,

Her enemy homemade.

At first she dreamed that when the battle would end,

It would be a happier day, and this she penned.

But then she dreamed that the battle would end,

With her life, and herself to the afterlife she'd send.

The battle continued for a long, long time-

Began in November, that battle of the mind.

She'd try to back out of the battle any way she could,

Death, strength, distraction, but in her place she still stood.

She had her reasons that no one knew,

A suicidal dad surely changes one's point of view.

Add to it with an alcoholic mother,

Controlling sister, and stoner brother.

It's easy to see why she lost herself,

Why she slowly transformed into someone else,

The once-happy, shy, weird girl,

Still had friends, but was alone in the world.

The April after she started the fight,

She finally told her mom one night.

But it turns out that desperate cry for help,

Fell through the cracks to somewhere else.

All those empty promises of therapy,

Filled the girl with false hope she could see,

And over time she stopped trusting the vows,

And slowly began to take her bow.

The November after that April she started fighting again,

She knew this time in her own way she'd end.

A martyr for her cause, she'd make sure they'd remember,

When she backed out of the battle on the 15th of December.

She'd kept a diary, in which she recorded bad days,

Drew pictures, wrote poems, everything she couldn't say,

As she spiraled downward, down below,

Depression from this battle shooting her into highs and lows.

Her last week rolled around, nine through fifteen,

It was miserable and pouty, or so it would seem.

The whole time she knew, the end was near,

It was what she'd planned- she'd soon be leaving here.

That last week she wondered what choice would be made by her foe,

What method would he use to send her off, and let her go?

Would he cause her to pick up the blade and lay it to her skin?

Overdose on pills? Steal Mom's alcohol again?

Time passed, that Saturday arrived,

By then she cared for nothing, except that she died.

She was tired of the constant struggle, trying not to cut,

Not to cry, not to take pills, not to drink, nothing but...

Be good, girl, keep your grades up,

We're all so proud- oh, you're so tough,

Always tell the truth, be careful online,

Oh, you've got such a creative mind.

These were the things she battled with for so long,

Trying to release her feelings into anything, even song,

And on the night of the fifteenth, she left for a walk,

Wanting one last stroll around the block,

She'd spent so much time there,

There was familiarity in the air,

Thick, dark gray clouds rested in the sky,

As if all the precipitation gathered to wave her goodbye.

But she sat down at her old bus stop and pulled her sleeve to her elbow,

And what she saw there somehow pulled her out of her low.

One, two, three... Seven,

How had she done all that self-mutilation?

She went back home, plans forgotten,

And looked around her room- sure, she hadn't been spoiled rotten,

But there was something important that slipped from her mind:

Why cut life short? We've only so much time.

She vowed to end,

But she didn't know next February she'd do it again.

Too much pressure, too much stress,

She'd thought it would be best.

A piece of glass left over a hundred marks,

But lucky for me, they didn't leave scars.

Yes, this was my tale, of my battle with cutting,

Of how I dealt when life was roughening.

I did a little more in March through May,

Until finally I decided to look at myself and say:

You're better than this, you're more than enough,

You've made it this far, and you've always been tough.

I stopped wallowing miserably around all the time,

And slowly began to recapture my mind.

Sure, there was still an excess of drama-

Most of it because of my then-crackhead mama.

But I'm fine now,

Battle's over, took my bow,

Threw away the razor, the glass, the knife,

And finally set myself on saving my life.

It was a long struggle- a year and six months,

Of life-challenging, depression-caused stunts,

I honestly don't know how I'm still alive,

But I'm incredibly glad I survived.

So to anyone out there caught in the struggle,

Even though I can't give you a hug or a cuddle,

I know where you've been, I understand,

You can always message me, if you feel like you're in that sorrowful land.

They say that suicide's a permanent solution to a temporary problem,

But that problem may seem so small to them,

And so big to you, so real, you can almost taste it,

But if you keep fighting, you can make it.

Don't fight yourself, as I had,

But fight the depression, fight being sad.

Find something new to focus on,

And before you know it, that sadness is gone.