first-draft-poetry

[first-draft-poetry]

Darkness

darkness/ˈdɑːknəs/

noun

the partial or total absence of light."the office was in darkness"

Absence of light. 

But when I am in those deep depths, darkness is more than absence of light. There is absence of self, and absence of being, and absence of life.

There is more than just absence.

My darkness is tangible, within my grasp. Its shadowy force chokes the life from the room, leaving frailty and weakness.

There is no escaping the darkness.

It suffocates and stiffles my cries for help. My thoughts are subdued, my pain belittled. Nothing matters in the darkness.

Yet my darkenss is comforting. The darkness is my friend. When the lights are bright and the world is loud and my head hurts from the screaming bright world, the darkness is there.

My pain is subdued, I feel nothing.

---

I write in a dark room on a dark night, the light from my laptop the only light in sight. The internet the only light in my life. It sounds pitiful, but when all else fails and when all else is shit and I have no other reason to live, I come to write my little words and scroll and scroll and text a friend. I suppose there isn’t as much darkness as I thought.

#tw self hatred #darkness #poetry #poems #tw death mention #cw swearing

[first-draft-poetry]

10 Comments on the World I Live In

A collection of poems I wrote at a low point. Reflects the hopelessness I feel, and the inablility to imagine a better world. (4-7 are the best imo)

TW: Self harm, death, self hatred

1. 2 lies and a truth

Happiness is a lie.

Pain is a lie.

The only truth is death.

 2.

Hate is a weakness

To care only for another’s

pain is pointless and blinding.

Carelessness is the better way

to treat those who wrong you.

 3. 2 truths and a lie

Love ends.

Happiness ends.

You will be ok.

 4.

Pain lasts

wearily, we shelve

our bloody blades.

The pain remains on the canvas

of our arms,

when out of sight, still

in mind.

The blood-soaked canvas

the only colour in a

monochrome dying

dead world.

And the pain lasts.

 5.

Crappy poetry voices

soundlessly in an empty room

the only audience is the

dust and decades-old dolls,

a remnant from a

laughing childhood.

The last time we were

happy.

The words whisper of a

world

of love and joy and happy

times

crushed by societies harsh

reality.

Pain expressed only though

red words on white paper

An irony, colouring in prevention

of colouring.

A happy life ended

And a sad begun

And the painted red lines just

ink these days

Nothing more

Nothing less

A reminder of irremovable pain.  

 6.

When the ink turns to blood

Running over the canvas

And into the white clean world

The painted red lines leak

into their happiness

Corrupting their ideas of

perfection

Stained is only beautiful when

glass

So that is how they treat us.

Fragile and breakable

And a bloody broken thing

Too kind for this cruel world.

 7.

They only care when

it makes them look good.

They curse our painted

red lines

And we know we are selfish

We know our bloody

broken souls are beyond help.

We know.

Why else would we keep painting?

 8.

So we lie and pretend

we are happy

And we lie and pretend

we aren’t sad.

Until there is only one

truth left to tell.

 9.

The poetry red bloody

lines spill out into their

pure clean white world.

 10.

Gone.

#tw self hatred #tw self harm #poetry #poems #angst #angsty #tw death