One day I will say
To the very day
When I fell
Into dillusional hell
I was eight
When I started to hate
And resent
The gift I was sent
Checking my life
Hiding a knife
So I wouldn’t cause harm
By cutting my arm
Just my own reality
Inside OCD
Making me feel
Safety’s not real
Thinking I’m magic
Not a sad tragic
Whose lost his will
And mentally ill
Finally in time
I worked out my mind
Was controlled by the devil
Who finially revealed
At night I crawl,
Spread out and creep,
Forever awake
Barely ever asleep
They are open
The pathways of my eyes,
But I’m not listening
It’s a familiar disguise
The panic is suppressed
And the mask starts to shake,
Again it’s exhausting
Forever awake
I don’t need understanding
I don’t need belief
What I need from my thinking
Is some truth and relief
It’s a lifelong phase
To live mentally ill
To you its invisible
To me it’s fucking real.
#depression #bipolar #writers #anxiety #suicide #ocd #beach #crying #mentalhealth #poetry #poems #writing #books #grunge #gothic #darkness #vampire #death #music #lyrics #film #addiction #addict #heaven #ill #illusion #isolation #virus #blue
Addiction seems so fruitful
Mountains of highs
Valleys of lows
We fight to-and-fro
Reaching for the sky to smile
But always end up drowning
Down below in the depths.
The aftermath of addiction
Drags down the soul
Swamps joy and hope
To the point of destruction,
Sleep becomes a distant distraction,
Sweat is the choice of panic
And crying the release for help.
The hole is deep
Dug by individual hand
Which carries the burden solely
The weight of the dirt,
Mountains are far out of sight
Especially as sinking begins
And normality shrinks.
Was peaking high
Worth the aftermath
And the massacre of feelings
That follows like a shadow
For eternity.
Last week I was approached by a Entertainment Blog/website called Arcane lost, if I could write an article on mental health, as they had seen my work on my own blog.
A week later my article is live on their website check it out;
Only an hourglass can drown me
Stop my obsessional time
From Flooding my senses
Where paradoxically, numbers play god.
Here I stand
Watching clocks
Counting seconds
Until minutes are lost.
Cursed to view existence
Consciously through life,
Living to the speed
Of a hand wound by a hand.
Its symbolic in nature
Ticking to the hearts beat
And When the cogs finially stop
It’s time for me to sleep.
The view is amazing from here
The calm and the peace
I wonder if this is how it feels
When the body ends its lease
I see some people below me
A muddle of colourless shapes
I hope they leave soon
I’ll ignore them while I wait
Now I can hear pure song
Dizzyness as the birds sing
Yes this will be my last memory
Slowly as I swing.
When sat alone
With the weight of blood
Panicked in solitude
Restricted from external wounds
Do we cry,
Or lie down upon the sympathy?
Voicing the same tale
To heighten ears
Imagining on empathic fears
Which soon dies
From curious eyes.
The scars of eternity sparks interest
To unknown generations
Seeking if the whispers are truth.
They are, if not worse,
Bones were cracked
Shock crushed the breath,
The story revealed forever wrapped in light
Never disclosing
How close we were to death.
Time lately concentrated
Memorized seconds calculating
To World domination,
Mass hallucination in forms of cogs
All seeing eyes
Ticking to a smile,
Hourglass hands set individually
Scrutinizing households
Watching
Waiting,
To a specific date
When no clock is late
End of time.
I have no words
I am an empty Figure
Dried up and weathered,
Discarded and thrown aside,
By my own mind
And compulsions.
Blood is my ink,
And Ink survives in the youth,
The fountain still produced
Though the source runs dry,
Just dust and bone
Laying in the worn paths
Where creativity and life
Flows no more.
The Show Must Go On
He will try to convince you
To do the merry dance,
The joker,
Pretending to be your friend,
His Manic laughter
Promising happily ever after.
Jingle bells, jingle bells
Jesters hat,
Go away you insidious monster
You mock yourself with that,
One, two, the fools on you
I see your game
Suffocating my lungs
Crushing my heart,
Whispering my name.
Bloody depression…
Chris Chant Poetry 