ANYTHING would be better than this. This chair is digging into my sides, and these white walls make the room look smaller than it is. My mind keeps straying, and my thoughts are heavy. It HURTS to think. I hate this room, I hate these walls, I hate this chair, I hate my medication, but every one of these things abuse me LESS THAN the voices. They scream, they tear, they strike, reminding me of the people I've killed in my mind, the reason I'm in this godforsaken room in this godforsaken institution. They tell me I'm better off dead. They tell me they'll stop when my heart does. THE doctors try to calm me, telling me the voices stop if I take the pills, but they won't. They'll never stop. They'll never rest, never stop torturing me, never leave me be, and at this point, I hope I die before they do, because at this point there is one thing that hurts more than even the voices.
The QUIET.
YOU ARE READING
I feel grey. || poem book
PoetryA bunch of trash emo poems because I'm an edgy piece of shit. This is by far the cringiest poem book I have, just know that. Sad, depressing poems. Cool.
