A collection of Poetry Vol. 1
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    A collection of Poetry Vol. 1

    Poesia

    This is the first in an addition of poetry shorts, this ones about mental illness and the struggles of schizophrenia, and the horrors it can produce.

    #adult #creative #illness #mental #poem #poems #poetry #schizophrenia #writing

    Dammit

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    Regret
    
                          
    A spring lake still clutching to  winters cold grasp.
    The morning mist rising from the waters.
    Its so silent here.
    
                          
    A short respite. But i know i have to go back soon.
    Theyre waiting for me. Always waiting. 
    What i wouldnt give for a moments peace. A moment of tranquility.
    
                          
    How i used to look up at the world with pure wonder. 
    Its still there, once thought forgotten.
    But the taste of happiness is worse than nothing.
    
                          
    Ever clinging to it, ever experiencing it for just a moment. It quickly vanishes.
    Followed in its wake. The numbness.
    The only thing that seems tangible.
    The only thing that i can feel. 
    
                          
    The feeling of no feelings. The feeling of hollowness, will it ever cease?
    Will i ever look up at the sky with wonder, without discontent, without melancholy.
    Wallowing for what once was.
    
                          
    Was it fun?
    
                          
    Was it fun? When you let me into your life.
    Was it fun? When you made me care for you.
    When i made you smile.
    Was it fun?
    When you used me for a couple of months.
    Then tossed me out the window.
    I hope it was.
    I hope it was worth it.
    The laugh, the joke.
    The silent stroke.
    I hope it made you happy, i hope it made you content.
    And when you rejected me so coldly.
    Literally laughing at me. 
    I hope it was worth it.
    Because it had a price.
    
                          
    Solitude
    
                          
    The screaming. The lighting.
    Its too much, to quickly
    I can barely stand being outside.
    The voices. Theyre always there.
    Like a little psychopath on my shoulder.
    They will speak to me.
    Whisper things 
    Shouting things.
    
                          
    But i care not anymore. For you have no power over me.
    You cannot hurt me.
    I have beaten you.
    We went 9 rounds in the ring.
    
                          
    At first your wild haymakers bludgeoned me.
    Threw me to the ground and then you laughed at me.
    Third round i stopped taking the beatings.
    6 round i fought back.
    Round 9 i found you lying in the corner.
    Beaten and broken and i realize.
    Youre nothing but a figure of my imagination.
    Youre but a tiny voice with no power over me.
    But i figured it out to late.
    The damage is already done.
    Will there be peace again?
    Will there ever be freedom?
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