My mind is starting to go dark once more... I'm losing myself once again. Yes, I've relapsed, but no one knows about it yet. But I guess everyone on my family, along with my therapist, will find out after reading this. I started writing again. Not stories, but poetry. My poetry sometimes rhyme, my poetry sometimes don't. Here's a part of my poetry that I wrote yesterday *doesn't rhyme*:
○• Puppets •○
Everyday, they get up. They walk, they talk, they even do some skips & jumps. But, their movements are stiff, uncorrelated & broken.
They slowly lose their motivation to live, so they try to end it. But... they can't. How can one try to die when they're not even alive?
Sure, they talk. Sure, they walk... But they don't breath. They don't eat. Cause they're puppets.
Puppets in the sick game of the society. They can never escape this harsh reality. We are the ones being controlled.
We are the puppets.
For a couple of the past days, I haven't been eating well. I could only eat lunch. I would skip breakfast & dinner without realizing it, but then my parents are "concerned" about me. They shouldn't be... but they are now. I want to die more. People are the reason why.
"Kill yourself, bitch." "Leave the world. Go." "This society is going to be better once you leave, you pathetic shit." Don't worry, guys... I'm trying. Don't worry. I'll leave soon. I'll be gone a little later... I'm trying my hardest. Don't worry.
Years ago, I stopped looking both ways of the road before crossing.
Years ago, I stopped counting the days until my birthday or anything.
Years ago, I stopped hesitating to cut & don't care how deep they are.
Years ago... is when I stopped living & focused on trying to survive.
○• Monsters •○
They don't care who gets hurt. They don't care about who cries, who gets angry, who gets depressed... they just don't care.
They attach themselves onto us, sucking our souls out from our bodies. They remove our motivations to live & try to end our lives.
They don't apologize for their actions, for their words... because they have no remorse. They have nothing to lose, except their human vessels.
Because they're monsters.
I find myself reaching for my blades & pills more often than I could count. I thought that I could have a new life at Rick High school... I was wrong. Sure, it's not "that bad." Sure, this isn't good either... but it's okay, at least. At least I'm still slowly dying.
I'm crying out for help, but no one hears me, because no one can hear me. My cries for help is silent. So it's impossible for anybody to hear me. I'm drowning in my own tears & blood...
I'm pretty sure that I shed more tears than an infant & more blood than a soldier... if not, I guess that's good...?
Anyway, it's getting late.
Once again, night, Journal.
Hello again, Demons.
(A/N: Also, should I put more "poems" here? People have told me that I make good writings & poetry... so I want to know what you guys think about it. Leave a vote & comment!
~G)
545 word count
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Journal Number One
Подростковая литератураHe was an ordinary student... with only several problems. He had a normal life... until "it" happened. He doesn't know how to cope... so he writes it all down in journals. Hidden in his room. What'll you find? Will you find his smile? Or his happine...
