Where do I begin?
Where did it begin?
When does it end?
How many times do I have to have the same conversation with my demons?
You fucking lie to me and expect me to just follow orders.
Tell me all these beautiful things about myself, but mean none of it.
I know you're fucking lying.
Well maybe.
I don't really know.
I don't think I care.
Lie or don't, I think I give up.
I've been trying to figure this shit out forever now.
What I should really do.
The beautiful one sitting on my shoulder tells me to grab that goddamned knife.
The ugly one says otherwise, and to stick it out to the end.
Regardless I'm going to suffer.
Dying ain't so bad to me.
I wish I could die.
Fade away into an alternate existence.
I don't deserve this life I have.
I wish I could wipe away my existence but I fucking can't.
I'm struggling.
Truly struggling.
I can't tell you.
I couldn't even begin to tell you about it.
The fucking nightmares.
The goddamn pain.
There's nowhere to begin.
That's why I shut my mouth and stay awake at night.
There's nothing that I can say to even ease the mental strain I deal with.
There's nothing you could do.
I'm just a fucking mess.
I'm sorry.
As much as I could say it, I could never prove it.
My fucking mental state is less than unstable.
Fuck.
YOU ARE READING
Dreams Over Reality
PoetryA compliation of poems and skits. The skits are no longer being continued. Most poems are about me and the events around me. Read my story This is my story.
