Alone in my dark room so I lay, covered in blankets hoping for the dawn of a new day. Always teetering near the edge, I wonder how it is that I haven’t slipped off yet. Empty inside, I’m barely alive. My life is a strategic effort to stave off the darkness, to keep the pain and suffering away, just to reduce my existential dread. Though suffering is unavoidable, I can do my best to try, and it does work, at least a little. My life has been tragic, and I struggle to relate, at least to those who haven’t felt the unbearable pain.
My sadness makes me want to self-medicate, it makes me want to self-eradicate; could it be the self-abuse is just rolling the dice? Maybe one day a truck will put an end to it all; over in a flash, and I didn’t know it was coming. I’m not brave enough to commit suicide, lord knows I’ve tried, too many times. It always end the same, in the hospital under lock and key – medical scrutiny. It’s too difficult, so I know it’s not an option, for it were easy I don’t think I would prolong this… life, that is.
We poets are blessed with a sensitive soul, attuned to the frequencies of above and below. The highest of heights and the deepest of lows, I wonder if someone will ever truly accept me as their own. I am a verb, not a noun; I am a process of change and growth, in an attempt to outrun the demon, the one that enveloped me so. When I am hurt, my heart turns cold.