These are the words of a mind that's torn.
Giving in to images and urges so forlorn.
Afraid to live, yet afraid to die,
Apathy prevents solace, the embitterment of my soul and I.
Am I built to be alone and love one who’s unknown and unclear?
Yet again, caught in a sea of the familiar pain of my peer.
I curse myself,
Too many shadowed thoughts cloud my mind,
One words answers instead of what once resembled happiness so kind,
These words shall not shine through such opaque water,
A journey so bleak you cannot help but falter.
Follow in line, another break down, melt down, again I am here no more,
Displacement, tremble in the fear of losing myself, losing yourself, losing itself forever more!
Those deigned to help seem to resemble the devil, the anti christ, the lycanthropic demon,
Their supposed happiness crawls so elusive in the dark of the PhD heathen.
Snapped back to reality by a calm voice hard to behold,
You are dragging yourself down, I am told,
You allow this state of being, I am told,
By the one who thought a few choice words could make the past disappear.
I am told my head is too dark for you to hold,
Onto the nearest black horizon shall I steer.
Such paranoia will ask;
Will you give up on me,
Are you here for status?
Do you have a caring side?
Are you as detached in your medical notes as you are in real life?
You fake emotions that burn in my mind as you sit across from me,
With that cool, sympathetic smile and dispirited eyes,
Your lackluster understanding camouflaged as care,
I can see right through you with one simple stare.
But a room full of them, watching me as I stew,
Professionals apparently knowing my mind as I do,
Reminds me of a hospital bed with doctors peering round corners to see the mad girl,
In a haze of sterile, bleached smells how my head does whirl.
I thank you for your textbook thoughts,
The words of other people stolen and rewritten by your hand,
Do not toy with my head and it's onslaught.
My mind is your playground,
Poked by different people, diagnosed, medicated, a state of me to be,
This is my minefield, my nemesis, my own treachery.
Denial is just another form of passive hatred in the bitterness your professional opinion has caused in me.
All I know now is your exasperation and frustration,
That I do not get better with each visit in desperation,
That my mind is still subject to it's own poisonous woe,
A past aching from deep inside my mind it does show.
So just make an appointment,
Next time I will be fine,
Just complain for an hour,
While less than sympathetic eyes roll around my words,
Your replies; apathetic and concerned.
Aloof recommendations, they hurt inside my head.
You don't want the responsibility of my descent on your time, or on your mind instead.