I'm done.
So fucking done.
I've tryed for so many years to fit in and make a safe haven for myself.
But all I've done is fuck everything up.
I've made my mum and dad stressed the fuck out,
My friend Is up at night reading my poems that will only make him worse because he's desperate to know that pains and horrors of depression.
Well you know what,
Just because you read something from someone who is dealing with alot of shit doesn't mean your going to get it.
Stop trying to set yourself up for something you will regret later.
Stop trying to bleed through your white porcelain wrists and don't fall down this hole.
For if you fall you won't have a friend to help you out.
You won't use pencil sharpeners for pencils,
You won't take off your hoodie or wear short sleeved shirts,
You won't have any motivation to do anything but sit in your room and this about all the dumb shit you've done and wrap yourself in a blanket of shadows pushing you beneath the ground and you will never scream loud enough to let them hear just the faintest sound so they may help.
No. None of that will happen. Because you are strong enough to pull your shit together while you still can and Barry your demons alive.
Don't say goodbye.
आप पढ़ रहे हैं
Loud Pøetry Spilled From The Quiet Soul
कविताAll of these are mine. Not the Internet. Trigger warning. (Self mutilation, depression, anorexia, etc....) And my apologies if they aren't even slow to Bukowski or Anything....I just wanted to try
