Its starts now

Hearing voices in my head
Saying words meant not to be said.
The occasional restless sleep,
No sense in counting sheep.
Face flushed and red,
Wishing I were dead.
A sadness so deep,
Like breathing it is to weep.
These were the things of my life,
Before the music cut it from me like a knife.
My comming of age has certainly matured me this past year,
Strange it is how a mere song can dry your tear.
Long has it been since the feeling of dispair,
Since I now forbare the beautiful lyrics of which none can compair.
This year, I have found the joy I had been missing,
My mental illness, I am now dissing.
I thank the music, and in return I give my soul,
I let it take control.
So, my dear poets you question ...how was my year?
Well, I let the music in one ear,
and my depression out the other.

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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