PTSD Don't you talk to me.
Don't you stare me down with those eyes;
Don't you tell me any of these lies!
I seem to be your prize within my mind,
and all my heart can do is cry;
How do I rise and fight my own mental mind;
I have no advise, no allies;
Turn my brain counter clock wise;
Take me back to my innocence.
Where my eyes could see the skies;
and I would not despise life itself.
Stick me on the dusty bookshelf because that is where I belong;
left to be forgotten.
Am I rotten to the core?
Will I bore those around me often promising
caution when you enter the gates of the garden of my mind.
Know that I am fallen, and I lay in a coffin of my fears.
It is not uncommon to not feel important,
to a society that has abandoned the mentally ill.
Cause yet all they offer for my PTSD is a refill on pills,
they do not hear the shrill screams in the night it seems.
They do not hear me; and I only over kill my lungs screaming within
;Not only to get a pill, But no peace of mind; within this garden of hell.
I might as well be another file and another trauma to quell;
As I retreat back into the comfortable shell of shadows.
Stay in my hotel of pain;
As the people walking by only wish me "Get well,"
I am screaming pulling out every hair cell from my swelling head.
I have bled and been misread; nobody opens my cover,
I am embedded to a round slipped in a gun.
I will slice you with words, instead spread my pestilence;
And bring you and I to our death bed.
Just let me drop dead; Because all I see is red; within my head;
It never stops
reminding me of the terrors of my past,
Endlessly looping like a movie that I can never leave.
Stuck glued within;
and I can't find the thin silver line to escape this shed.
Un-drape me from my naked soul; as the fears within
take shape and gut me clean!
Drink the thoughts inside my head,
this canteen of benzene in between happiness;
and hatred, Am I a machine? Is anything I ever do serene..
Or do I stay in silence behind a smoke screen,
bathed in sage green, I have felt this way since I was thirteen, and its all just a routine now. Nothing ever got better when I turned nineteen. Downing one Benzo..
After the other..Give me the Xanex so I can breathe'!
The state of the machines;
is entertaining to the famous;
watching me grovel;
watching me die.
Communication of mental illness is important you see;
Rehabilitation of one's mind is not important to affiliate with society.
The truth is; that no one cares,
until you are a eulogy.
Its brutally and bloodily beautifully,
and foolishly we still believe in unity.
I am hung with scrutiny; posed like shining jewelry;
to the community of demons; where they take the opportunity;
to slice into me with memories that I can not run from;
Shadows chase me down the hallways;
as run from my own mind! So perfectly well timed,
in all of these rhymes; but the PTSD is never kind.
I can not combine all the pain in one poem,
I can not find what I am supposed to be assigned to
, I don't know who I am, and I feel I am behind.
Sometimes I feel blind to what I have in front of me; peel the rind of maligned pain...
I can't explain what goes on in the domain of my brain;
because one minute all I am to maintain;
is all that remains of a shell of the girl scared of the world;
I chain myself in the rain; as the pain leaves my veins;
Drain me of all that bad blood on my hands.
But the PTSD demands that I stand;
In this bent hell is where I stay; screaming within;
As I try to get through this, That I feel everyone misunderstands..
YOU ARE READING
Spoken Word #2 (2018-2020)
PoesíaBook number two on the poems that I have written, and will continue to write. Its really the only thing I know how to do. Sometimes I feel is if its the only thing I know how to do. While I stay silent .. Physical words are so hard to speak, All I...
