Words and whispers I can’t get to leave my head
The voices call; they want me dead
The asylum grows closer as I grow colder and the threat of pills stays my hand’s blade
One more mistake is all it takes to send me back, and kill my hopes of moving forward.
 My school work, my  job, it’ll all be over.
 Medicines will consume me, taking over my mind.
No longer will I find pleasure in writing lines or playing rhythms, the ability lost in the crusade of science and therapy.
Trust will be dismissed, me reverting to the life of a prisoner for two weeks then a man on probation for thrice that time.
The doctors my wardens, my parents the POs, my free time eradicated.
Privacy lost, conversations monitored, the life of an inmate to my mom and dad.
A prisoner of my own thoughts, left to penance on what I’ve do e wrong,
The rumination continues all day long
And merely solidified in my mind what the words I the walls and the scars on my arms say
I’m worthless. I’m worthless. I need to die today.
My friends lost, my enemies jeering, the cycle will keep repeating until the end of time, getting shorter each time around.
Relapse, recovery, relapse, attempt, recovery.
 The pattern repeats until the end of time.
Or at least until the day I die…
3 comments
thrice? otherwise well done.
I suppose the alternative is to keep playing music. You definitely have the talent to carry on as a tortured artist. 🙂 (Sideways compliment there).
if this is your writing, please do something big with it. so many people could relate