Suicide [Poem]

Dedicated to a friend of mine who was failed.

Heart stops, literally,

as you fade into a black existence,

with those mourning,

others tutting,

some not caring at all,

for you are dead

and you did it by your own hands.

This is why your death

is debated by all around;

are you stupid

or are you scared?

Are you worthless

or is that simply unfair?

Why are people talking about you

as if you’re just a court case?

You’re a person, dead or alive,

and you still have a face.

The Mind of Anxiety

Leave the house or everyone will forget you exist.
Return home or they will remember how awful you are.
Speak up or people will think you have no tongue.
Be silent or you will offend the world.
Do what they ask or you won’t be respected.
Disobey them or you won’t be respected.
Listen to something else other than your mind, for once.
How can you listen to something else when your mind won’t ever leave?
It’s that music the neighbours are playing too loud, it’s your heartbeat that you just remembered is right there, it’s the alarm clock reminding you that you are alive.
Talk to people or you’ll suffocate.
Don’t talk or their advice will make you regret it.
No one can help you except yourself, they say.
Try being me. Then give me that advice. I can’t help myself. I’m a block of ice. Helping myself would mean melting away.

C [Poem]

Sometimes it’s A or B,
Other times there’s only C.
They say you have a choice,
but that isn’t always true.
Often, you have to resort
to doing what’s best for you.
It might make them upset
but you’re not their puppet.
A or B might lead you astray,
so give C a try,
before it’s taken away.

People Tell Me

People tell me I’m sensitive. What this means is that my heart is unlocked and you just need to climb inside it to see that I’m crying. People tell me I’m insensitive. What this means is that I picked up a pebble and threw it into the wind, but then it fell back down and was bigger than I first noticed. People tell me I’m beautiful. What this means is that my mind is a socket and people are plugging in a charger for my feelings. People tell me I’m ugly. What this means is that everyone else sat in a field of grass whilst I played in the mud. People tell me I’m smart. What this means is that I listened to thousands of other voices regurgitating the same spit. People tell me I’m dumb. What this means is that my life is an essay that I have yet to complete. People tell me a lot of things. What this means is that their lips keep determining, their eyes keep deducting, and their ears keep ignoring. I tell myself that I’m here. What this means is that I can focus on the snakes or the mice but, either way, I’m going to get bitten. Instead, I should focus on the most conflicting voice of all: my own.

Wall

A brick wall pushes against my brain,

trying to keep me sane,

but in reality,

it’s trapping the helps and the whelps

and maybe I need them back.

If I have no tears or fears,

if I have no worries at all —

then what’s left to care about?

You only care when you feel bad,

and I just can’t feel sad.

It’s so heavy, against my mind,

and I can’t lift it —

I need a grenade.

Perhaps, then,

I’ll find a way

to feel again.

Rain Clouds

Everyone has a little box in their brain

full of rain clouds

that will never go away.

They’re the rain clouds

you can’t let fade,

because they’re the darkness

you need to keep.

They’re tightly sealed,

until those days

when you think about them.

My box is full to the brim,

and rain clouds are fighting

to get out every day,

and more are getting leaked.

They fill the parts of me

I don’t want them to fill,

and rain is getting in the way.

My happiest thoughts become

soaked in rain.

And me?

I’m already drenched.

There’s no saving

a soggy piece of paper.

I Think

I think

that I exist,

I think

that it’s real,

I think

that we’re alive,

I think

all of that,

but what do I know?

Nothing.

Because knowledge is

never definite,

as it could all just be

an illusion;

rain, sun, snow,

the world,

the stars…

We’ll never know

whether our eyes

are actually there

or whether all of this

is a dream.

I think I can touch it

but I know I can feel it.

I think I can see it

but I know I can think it.

Urges

Urges send my hands reaching,

clawing at what they want,

but then I stop them.

I have to stop them.

Urges control my mind,

every thought in it

wants the same thing.

Happiness, sadness,

anger, they all become one.

One spear aimed at the heart.

Whether it misses or not,

that’s up to me,

and whether I listen

to my mind.

The spear misses this time.

The Box and The Ball

The box is blue.

Inside the box is a ball.

The ball is red.

The ball doesn’t want to be inside the box.

The ball would much rather be inside a red box.

The ball jumps.

The box doesn’t move.

The ball learns to accept that it is stuck with the blue box.

The box doesn’t want the red ball to be inside it.

The box tries to open.

The box is stuck.

The box tries to crush the ball.

The box can’t get rid of it.

The box learns to accept that it is stuck with the red ball.

A yellow car comes.

In one movement, the yellow car crushes the blue box.

The blue box crushes the red ball.

The red ball suffocates.

If only, the yellow car had avoided them.

If only, the blue box had opened up.

If only, the red ball had jumped out.

Let’s Be Honest

Let’s be honest.

I’m in a black hole

that’s sucking me in deeper,

and I’m trying to reach —

reach for the stars, as they say,

but I can never make it.

Let’s be honest.

I’ve been like this for a while,

sleep is my companion

and my worst enemy,

I don’t have the motivation

to get motivation,

I don’t have the aspiration

to get aspirations,

I don’t have the strength

to get strength.

Let’s be honest.

I’m sorry I can’t pull myself away,

from the same muddled day

I’ve been living for too long,

it’s a blurred mess.

Let’s be honest,

I’m depressed.