A shitty Artist with a shitty head, writing shitty poems

This Constant Cycle

My mind is a battle field.
I'm trying to find a shield.
I'm so terrified,
I'm So terrified.
Its constantly at war
Fighting to its very core.
I'm trying to hide so I can survive,
But I'm starting to grow tired of being alive.
Why can't my mind find peace with its self,
put it up high so it can't be reached on the shelf.
What is the point of all this, please answer me.
Why aren't you answering? please agree.
I'm growing so tired,
I'm growing so tired.
I'm letting you take control,
I no longer own this soul.
It seems you are winning this fight.
I guess I'm losing all sight.
All the things that were important,
Lost importance.
Maybe I'll make it back,
Perhaps I'll find what makes you crack.
Until then
I'll use paper and pen
To keep a part of me thriving
So I'm stronger when arriving.
Or maybe I'll lose myself entirely,
And these words will be written bitterly.
With no meaning, just empty words,
All emotions kicked to the curb.