It's too fucking late in the night.
It's 2 am and I'm in my room,
Getting warmth from a heater blanket,
And trying not to pull an all-nighter.
But there's so many thoughts in my head,
About him and her,
About my life,
About suicide,
About my depression,
My anxiety,
What did I eat today?
What did I do today?
What did I think about earlier today?
Did I do or say something stupid?
Probably, probably.
I'm tired of thinking,
But what else is new?
Besides a new hair color, of course.
Taking deep breaths don't help.
I think of happy things
Then I think of how easily I can lose those happy things.
I take a CBD tablet,
I smoke some weed,
I swear it's medicinal.
But I still can't stop thinking.
My art is full of people
And the people are embodiments of depression and anxiety,
The background are bright colors but then I look at the characters,
I look at the depiction of me
And see nothing there.
No reds,
No blues,
No yellows,
No pinks.
No anything.
Only greyscale and values,
Nothing more.
Because even if everything else is bright,
It doesn't mean my thoughts are.
It doesn't mean I am.
Sure, I try to disguise it with happy songs and brightly colored clothing,
Sure, I smile and sing and laugh,
But if you look closely,
Underneath those pink cheeks from laughing too hard,
All you see is grey.
All you see is nothing.
When can I have my color back?
It left me years ago, promising to come back.
Why isn't it back?
Why can't I be just like the old me?
Because, I think,
She's already too far away.
YOU ARE READING
Poems That I Form
PoetryI write poems that are me, Or rather what is in my head. It may be prose, Ponders, Sadness and grief; But who expected happy poetry anyways? If you wish not to see a crying girl, Then you're reading the wrong book. If you wish not to see the terror...
