Don't Worry, It's Just OCD.

Tue, 04/03/2018 - 05:41 -- Arlea

The voices, they are silent yet
Somehow my very hurting head
Convinces me that I am dead.
So where am I?
“Then let us die,
Don’t say goodbye:
Their panicked cry
And asking why
Will justify
A simple lie
Or two,
And I and you
Are leaving soon
To where you’re meant to be.”
(but it’s just OCD)

 

 

Though my eyes see nothing,
They see everything as well.
I’m in the car,
Not going far.
Like a guitar
with missing strings,
The not-quite-right alarm bell rings
And then my eyes go left to right
And skip and blink and – hold on tight…
That truck, this bike,
it must be right!
Otherwise, like porcupines,
Their skin will stick with glassy spines.
My hands, crimson with their demise;
My fault will cost their very lives…
But no-one else can see.
(because it’s just OCD)

 

 

My skin, a canvas of a kind,
Bruised by guilty blades that hide
Their faces in my hurting flesh,
They kiss the thresh-
-hold of a vein.
Filled to be emptied,
Again! Again!
All for loss and none for gain.   
Because, if I did it right
I wouldn’t have this fear, this fright
That every untouched piece of skin
Will make me lose so they can win.
The game we play, it goes such:
I perish, or I must bleed much
And much and more and just enough,
“But my skin is quite too tough!”
“Then tie the rope and jump.”
The loser? Me.
(but it’s just OCD)

 

 

 

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world
Guide that inspired this poem: 

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