Obsessed, Not Obsessed

I'm obsessed,
Obsessed with death. 

I love to picture my own end. 
Will it be by my own hands?
An enemy's? 
Will I be a hero? 
Or will I grow old?

 

I'm obsessed,

Obsessed with hardships. 

I love to picture my own horrors. 
Will I be paralyzed? 
Lose everyone I care about? 
Survive something insane? 
Or just be like everyone else?

 

I'm obsessed,
Obsessed with pain. 

I love to daydream about my next injury. 
Will it be on purpose? 
With a trusty razor or knife? 
From a rather rough sport? 
Or a simple ol' accident?

 

I'm not obsessed,
Not obsessed with my life. 

I hate to daydream about tomorrow. 
Why must it be so lonely? 
Why must it be so confusing? 
Is anything even real? 
What is the point?

 

This poem is about: 
Me

Comments

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741