They tell me it gets better,
It's just a phase.
But what phase is this?
An eternal one?
I'm addicted to this,
This feeling of being numb,
Hidden in the darkness.
Addicted to the pain,
The isolation.
What if my problem is myself?
The voices in my head all me?
The darkness I see,
All of my own making?
What if I'm my own enemy,
I'm the hell I run away from.
I break myself,
With words, thoughts,
From my own mind.
Everything I ran away from,
I became.
Everything I tried not to be,
Everything I walked away from,
I see them now.
Taunting me, laughing at me,
For my darkness was my fault,
No other's.
So, when I love, it's living death.
I walk alone in this path,
I made darkness my creed,
Formed depression,
With hands of flawless poetry.
I created my demons,
Now I'm haunted by them.
Everything I am,
Everything I've done,
Were for the purpose of utmost destruction.
I weaved depression like a cloak,
Flowing black tinged with red.
I knitted anxiety into being,
I summoned those demons,
My mind working overtime,
Thoughts so cancerous.
I fashioned hell out of heaven,
And dared to call it art.
I'm not dead,
Not alive either.
Just somewhere in between.
Expect nothing from me,
For I've faded into shadow.
Now when I speak,
It's the echoes of who I once was.
Do not look for me,
I don't exist.
Not anymore.
©mutepoet
M