Revised.

November 6, 2015

They say it's the anxiety that keeps you up at night.

They say it's the stress that doesn't allow your eyes to shut tight.

They say you're "over thinking it" and "oh it's nothing",

When it's a lot bigger than that, it's a lot bigger than "just something".

Although yes it's these symptoms I do suffer from,

Depression, anxiety, panic attacks, go away as fast as they come.

It's none of the above that have caused me this pain,

But better yet it's the hopefulness I've failed to gain.

It's the restless nights and the pity fights that have brought me here.

It's the "you're not good enough" or "where will you end up in ten years"?

You've pushed me to this edge that I have refused to jump over,

For I could not bare to give you the satisfaction of my life being over.

You've torn me down physically, mentally, and emotionally more times than I can remember.

Yet theres this fuel inside of me still burning as though it were an ember.

It lights my soul on fire while I drown in my sorrows,

For I forever live in fear that there will be no tomorrow.

Who is this demon? You ask. Chaining my spirit to this freight?

For it is me, myself, and I stimulating this unhealthy delight.

It is my mind who tells me I'm simply unworthy,

Of accepting all life's gifts it has to bestow to me.

But as the years pass and the clock ticks time away,

Ive found myself being able to avoid substance abuse day by day.

I didn't want to be another tragic news story,

Entitled, "Teen death from over dose" with implemented gory.

Turning a cheek on that lifestyle indeed was difficult,

But if it didn't happen now, who knows if I might've ended up a criminal.

Handcuffed to a bottle or a small powerful pill,

Would I even be alive today, and able to look out the windowsill?

Graze my eyes along the life I should've lived,

Instead of laying here, over-dosed and unresponsive.

With that being said, I guess my personal definition would be revised.

For I am not completely changed, nor am I totally disguised .

But simply a rough work of art,

Looking for a fresh new start.

As cliche as that sounds, I'm well aware of my messy past,

But after all, revision of oneself does not happen fast.

Something wrong with this poem?

Replies are closed for this poem.

See what makes your poem unique — its voice, energy, themes, and the literary traditions it draws from.

Comments (0)

No comments yet. Be the first to share your thoughts.