Some days like this,
I wish to just forget everything.
Be sane, be free.
But these thoughts,
They ravage my mind,
I'm tired of talking about them
It's no use anymore.
Writing used to help, not anymore.
Now I'm different,
My words are like fire,
My heart akin to ice.
So, I'll sink a little deeper,
In darkness and depression.
Not like anyone cares.
I've tried,
Now I'm done trying.
I'm tired, damn this.
It doesn't end,
It never ends.
I'm tired,
Of letting myself down,
Letting the world down.
Am I really alive,
Or a dead soul acting it?
Hell is real,
It's on earth.
It's my mind,
When the darkness comes.
I want to leave,
Just fade into nothingness.
Can't you see that?
Can't you see the tears,
I refuse to shed?
Is this just a poem?
Has it ever been?
Where's the boy,
In love with art?
Where's the smile,
That melts frost?
Where's that boy?
He died,
A few years after he was formed.
Darkness claimed him,
Depression named him.
He lived,
Through death.
He died daily,
Words bleeding,
Out of his hands,
Gripping that pen.
With each word he wrote,
His soul broke.
His mind,
Shattered into a thousand pieces.
Oh I think you know him,
Some say he exaggerates his scars,
But they never saw,
The tears at midnight.
It's tiring,
Like a song on repeat,
For all of eternity.
The boy is tired,
The boy is me.
All me.
©mutepoet
M