Rest: A poem

The other night I felt like writing, but I couldn’t think of anything to write about. Instead of writing on my computer, I hand wrote a stream-of-consciousness poem that’s pretty morbid. It’s raw, but I want to share it because some of my feelings might be relatable.

Sleep, is there no rest?

Tired all the time, no rest

Need silence, nothing but noise

Can’t turn off my tumultuous thoughts

Die, die, die, die, die

They scream

Obsessed are they with death

Even on good days, they are lurking

Bad days are almost unbearable

Who can I talk to?

Will anyone understand?

No, the answer is no

None of my friends truly understand

The struggle

How tired I am of myself

It is terrible being me somedays

Most days

Everything hurts, yet I also feel numb

Die, die, die—


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