She sits all alone in a corner,
Huddled.
The voices are telling her there's a way out,
An escape from this hell.
She just wants the whispering to stop.
Is it peers,
Or is it madness?
Or are they the same thing?
They're telling the girl that it won't stop.
I will never end.
Resistance is futile.
She's not getting enough sleep.
She could blame insomnia,
Or the nyctophillia,
But she knows inside it's the guilt and sorrow,
Driving her over the edge.
The edge of madness and suicide.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry for the Pained
PoetryThis is just poetry that I've randomly written, and feel like publishing them will help or inspire others. They're all pretty short. Please, no hatful remarks.
