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
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
How tired I am of myself
It is terrible being me somedays
Everything hurts, yet I also feel numb
Die, die, die—