"Scarlet Ink"

I hate me.

As I write my words of self-hatred

in my bathroom mirror,

I fantasize

about scrawling them, bold as screams, in scarlet ink

upon these magnolia walls:

the scarlet ink

of my blood.

Just because - I can - and why the hell not?

Should I add names?

I would love to add names,

just to externalise

the obsessions,

that live in my mind,

as I slowly die:

people who have hurt me,

are hurting me still,

and don't even care.

Is there

an end

to the

torture

that is

my existence?

"Burden to Society"

drained by this way of life

the constant pain and endless strife

relentless bubbling

of anger inside

internalised

then externalised

hate myself

resent the world

unwanted - unneeded

my warning's unheeded

because no-one really cares

and I am left here in despair

contemplating suicide

not one place left to hide

writing depressing poetry

thinking

knowing

that this world will

surely be

a better place

without

the burden

of me

"Something's Not Right"

what do you do

when the pain and discomfort

keep you awake at night

your body sending out

her unsubtle signals

that something's not right


do you write poetry

that's boring and repetitive

just to get through

do you have secret fantasies

do you ever just cry

what do you do

to make it through

another long night

"Distraction"

She grabs at each distraction,

in the hope that she might find

something that can ease the pain,

and fill her heart and mind.


She tries to shut out her emotions,

instructing her imagination,

to leave well alone:

select another destination.


It's as if she's going crazy -

and she's trying to let go,

and be reasonable and rational,

and not to let her feelings show -


and so she grabs at each distraction,

hoping.

"Lifestyle Choice"

It's a tangled mess inside my head.

Some days I can just stay in bed,

and no-one knows or cares at all.

I could be alive. I could be dead.


The world goes on: all well and good.

I might move a muscle, if I could -

but depression brings paralysis.

I need to move. I know I should.


I can't explain how I feel inside,

or why I stay in bed and hide -

but, believe me, no-one would choose this "life".

So many pointless tears, I've cried -


and still you seriously believe

my depression to be

a so-called "lifestyle choice"?

"Falling Apart Again"

I have my moments of

not quite suicidal.

Then, on cue, my world must

fall apart again.


I don't understand what I've done

so wrong,

but here it is - the way it is -

my life of torture,

pure, unendurable, soul-destroying pain.


And I will never escape.

"See Me Through"

And if fresh fantasies might see me through,

and give my world a lighter, brighter shade or hue -

must we still question what the mind can do,

or simply accept that, here and now, I write these words for you?


In my eternal darkness, I remain.

Yet, if I feel your spirit's light, then why complain?

There is some melody, even in pain,


and it's enough - that you can make me smile again.