Fighting for survival.
Maybe am fighting for sanity,
The loud noises in the back of my head,
Loud they go.
So I put on the music,
The rythm has become my home,
My place.
I have been floating,
Round and round in circles.
Same point I begun,
Sometimes, I think I don't deserve-
Hope.
Maybe it's these thought that death is peace,
And silence.
Life after death,
I play with this thought,
My hands flickering.
The flashes run a maze in head,
Dead, death.
The black and white flashes,
The constant reminder of me-
Myself, my past.
It all comes around at last.
I can't let go,
probably, won't let go,
I need a hand.
Or I can fight this on my own,
Few steps.
Few sips,
Am off the trinch.
The taste fades my lips.
I lay down and I'm back in this trip.
"Oh well, this is what we are",
He whispers slowly.
I say, "please stop,
Get out my head,
I need my peace,
I need you to leave",
He says back,
"I am you, and you are me, haha,
Such a loser.
Look at yourself,
Look at the mirror,
So broken.
So lost".
The next two scenes are about a broken heart...
YOU ARE READING
THE WILLOW TREE
PoetryIt's a struggle for my sanity through a moment of rage and out of space, psychetry is my build as I layer my truths, it's a journey, the second trip
