Life’s over.

hey guys. as you know im not afraid to talk about my mental health conditions, however what i am shit scared of is posting this next thing, its a beat poem (with no music obviously, because i am writing it on here), so i guess……..just a poem on here. its called……life’s over.

here goes…….(sorry about spelling mistakes)

sinking pills, emotional rollercoasters and hills,
up and down, warning posters, no thrills,

‘how are you?’ they say,
‘im fine’ i spray, through the teeth i never display,
through guilt, dpression, paranoia,
that keeps any smiles at bay.

‘you’ll be alright’ they snear,
cant hear that through the fear
of yet another year of tears
and the shear amount of pain
running through my brain
am i going insane???

perhaps i am, at least,
the voices in my head that feast
on thoughts sometimes understand
that maybe i am insane,
its the least that would explain
this voice of this horror band.

getting back to the beggining bit,
up and down, and pills, and shit,
when you’re not sure you’re at lifes end,
five pills a day, each one drives me round the bend.

carry on being fake, to give everyone else a break,
sometimes do a second take, cus the ignorance
of others, brothers, sisters, mothers.
like im fine and nothing’s wrong
part of the reason i wrote this song.

‘drink?’, sorry no, im on pills, ‘ah, whats wrong?’
can’t say without someone making a dance or song
about how they know a freak like me, someone who cant even manage to pick up a cup of tea (thats right)
without fear of a near fatal apocalypse,
you heard me, im afraid to put coffee to my lips.

insomnia, or too much sleep,
whichever one, it makes me weep,
an eternal tiredness, im always wired….less.
this is, the mess i call my rest.

how do you do, support worker number eight,
im sorry mate, youre late, my lifes already filled with hate,
can’t heal me, im free!, im trapped, just let me be.

crapped out all this book knowledge,
i know! i did psych in college, i know all your practices,
just a shame its as much use as burnt out matresses,

fact is, im ill, unhealable, unfeelable,
its postively unfeasable that one person,
who has no personal experience, will make that appearance,
do you have no coherence?!

lets get to frank, hes my buddy,
well i say buddy, i mean he appears when my minds
bloodied and muddy,
hes my nighytmare, the thing that scares me most in the night,
just the thought of an appearance is a major fright.
he tells me to do stuff,
and when ive just about had enough,
things get rough.

you find yourself neck deep in water,
and then the thought occurs to you,
‘is this the right thing to do?’
ive got no choise in afraid, this is the bed you made,
one last breathe, you feel bereffed of all life and feeling,
one deep breathe, and you’re finally healing.

life’s over.

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