My poems aren't very long
Neither is my life
I don't know how long i have
I promised
I promised
I promised
I said i'd be okay
But what if that was a lie
What if it only gets worse
As time passes by
I cry at night
At school
In the car
There's no where my tears haven't brushed
The snot becomes a mess
A mess i can't clean up
I want to die
Please just let me go
Please its too much
I know you don't really care
But please just this once
Pretend
So i can stay
You don't want to be the one responsible for my loss
Everyone is gone
What's the point
Far far away
She looks down upon me and watches
She sighs
Cheers
Crys
Pleads
All i do is disappoint
What will i do
When its been years
When still no one cares
When i have more scars than smooth skin
The pills look so good
No one would notice if i took some
Two
Five
Seven
Ten
Who cares?
Not you
Not me
Not her.
Who would notice my empty seat
Who would notice the empty thread
Who would feel a sense of dread?
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Hammond B3 Organ Cistern by Gabrielle Calvocoressi
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Standing alone
Crossroads of life…
No idea which one to take…
My feet are in chains…
I tied these on my own…
No will, no strength…
Won’t untie…
It’s a comfort zone…
Discomfort within…
Alone.. forlorn..
Not destiny…
I did it…
No one is at fault…
Just me…
Penned by:
Mayura Amarkant
Copyright ©MayuraAmarkant. This article is the property of DiaryOfAnInsaneWriter. Any unauthorized use or duplication…
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How am I supposed to be okay with everything that's wrong?
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Paul Gilmartin The Mental Illness Happy Hour // BoJack Horseman (2014-2020) cr. Raphael Bob-Waksberg // John Mulaney: Baby J (2023) cr. John Mulaney
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you think about killing yourself. you think about going to bed at a reasonable time. you do neither of these things.
instead, you resign yourself to staring at the cracks in the ceiling—tell yourself that tomorrow will fix it. that a mouth to the underside of your jaw will fix it. that ginger shots or yoga or taking three deep breaths or patching the goddamned cracks in the ceiling will fix it. you've been trying to fix it—this gasping, hollowing sensation in the gore of your chest—since you were fifteen and bitter and lurching into traffic / into lovers you couldn't love back / into any scrap of warmth that would have you.
you take three deep breaths. you watch the ceiling. you let time pass through you like a knife.
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Instead of Killing Yourself, Derrick C. Brown
wait until
a year from now
where you say,
“Holy fuck,
I can’t believe I was going to kill myself before I etcetera’d…
before I went skinny dipping in Tennessee,
made my own IPA,
tried out for a game show,
rode a camel drunk,
skydived alone,
learned to waltz with clumsy old people,
photographed electric jellyfish,
built a sailboat from trash,
taught someone how to read,
etc. etc. etc.”
The red washing
down the bathtub
can’t change the color of the sea
at all.
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