has life
gotten
on my last nerve
let me check
am I still here
wallowing
do I really
want to know
what life means to me
or am I done
with feeling
empty emotions
and fickle people’s
trying attempt
at connection
that misses
every.damn.time
to engage
i fear i’m done
loving heart still beats
but the destroyed mind wants death
yet, there’s still some hope
Darkness descends,
and crushing loneliness
becomes my cage.
Fine is just perfect…
fucked up
insecure
neurotic and
emotional.
The future,
just a feeling
put on hold.
Nothing will ever
turn out finer…
Fucked up
insecure
neurotic and
emotional but
recovered.
The biology demons
are strong.
Hope becomes
an illusion,
a sinister lie.
One entrenched deep
in every nook
of me with every
slide black.
It’s happiness
not easily found.
This
my undeniable
state.
Trapped in my head,
a life controlled
not by me,
watching this
play out indiscriminately.
Controlling very little,
only breaking down.
Further
and faster
to my end.
The cost of living is expensive.
**This is not my current state. Don’t worry.
feels like it’s over
done it all
seen it all
had it all
there’s nothing
to look forward to
the future
on repeat
living
is struggling
death
is release
think I’ll go now
The inspiration for this piece came by way of Peace at Noon – Fabrice B. Poussing
pixabay.com
She was damaged by circumstance
against her will.
The patterns of dysfunction became habits of life.
She claimed her internal baggage to carry onward.
Life was always challenging.
The rewards were seemingly unattainable.
Happiness was strived for but just out of reach.
A bitter, lonely end was her destiny.
And inevitably, she ceased to exist.
In
pain and
in darkness,
needing numbness
or release. Battling for air, or life?
The light slowly leaving.
Dolor creeping into this blank space in my head.
Swallowed up in this ever-deepening gray haze minimizing my liveliness.
Pitch-blackness, my old friend, immobilizing me again.
No energy, desire, motivation or strength.
This thick sadness creates a loneliness where hope can’t creep in.
Courage oozes away, one drop after another of life leaking to somewhere it can’t return from.
Goals left to die in the waves of this depression.
Silent tears pitching between wet, heavy sobs.
An aching all-encompassing deep pain leaving invisible scars.
Severe despondency and dejection, I doubt life can go on.
It’s a reality in my head not worth living.
Escape from that which continually pulls me down feels impossible, this devastating extreme of the opposite of happy.
It feels like I’m stolen from me.
I feel over.
I Write Her 