Poetry on Mental Illness being acknowledged.
What is this obsession with always being happy?
You ask me how I am?
I am just supposted to say great, while along the way traumas trap my door?
What is this obsession with keeping it together?
We are weak for asking for help?
What is this obsession with seclusion?
When we feel, we are supposted to just pretend?
Well I’m done pretending in this television world.
Wood entraps my throat
Closing in, an esophogus sketch
Words held in a deep note
She’s a wretch
Eyes closed on the inside
You see courage, confidence, bravery
My skin dissentegrates-“I tried”
You don’t see me, you see an image, I’ve created so carefully
If I shed my skin
If I spoke the words
Awkwardly, you would grin
Because who knows how to play the repeating of mental records?
If I gave myself to the world
There would be few that would be comforted from this grace of relief
Until you catch up, I will fast forward, push power, and pull me out of this static
Reality is but an advertisement, for our emotions fall asleep
Unknowingly, your innocence, or nieviety is a bullet that steals
Without care for others, consideration and unknowligibility,
You are just being used as a tool
that is blamed for the upside construction of society’s damned wheel
It spins, and spins, and spins again,
Disacknoledging the fact that mental illness is not seen
But saying that I have it all together
Just re-eterates the fact that they didn’t take the time
I seem under the weather?
That is just who I am.
Since when was ignorance-Society?
Painting from pintrest