With a head full of words,
That are too mute to be heard,
A mind full of thoughts,
That are too sad to be iterated,
And a brain full of lies,
That are too old to be remembered,
One may wonder,
"What is wrong with me?"
There's a question everyone else,
Will seem to ask,
"How does one think like this?"
And there's the statements
That are horrible to be on the receiving end of,
"It's not real. You're lying.
You aren't struggling with a thing,
You're just being dramatic.
You're just being a hormonal teenager."
And the worst part is,
The stigma still hangs,
Looming over the thought,
Of even uttering a syllable,
About our own mental health,
That we stay silent,
And everything gets worse.
YOU ARE READING
Just A Mess
PoetryI'm not too sure as to what this is, but I often get bored and lost in my thoughts, so why not write them out? As I wrote I created poetic sentences, lines and phrases. So, I hope they can be enjoyed despite their mainly heavy topics. This book cove...
