4.12.2011

Sometimes I feel as though I’m dying.
Slowly inside; breaking piece by piece.
Other times, I swear, I wish I were.
So when will this horrid feeling cease?

I’m no good at figuring out my possibilities.
Eventually it’s all going to make sense, right?
Oh how I wish things would just be better.
But no matter how much I try I always fight.

I’m broken beyond the complex breaks in a mosaic.
At least those are somehow pieced back together.
Their cracks creatively aligned to make beauty.
But with my mistakes I’m just a fall’n away feather.

There’s no way I can be placed back where I belong.
I’m just a mess of empty particles forever failing.
And if I were ever to admit that I need help,
It’d be ignored like an abandoned baby’s wailing.

There’s no way I’m meant to be anything more.
I’ll always be part of forever changing statistic.
One of the more depressing obsessive ones.
The kind that creates so much grief you feel sick.

I’m a hopeless life with no real future or attraction.
and each word I write is more vulnerable than I.
For my identity of self is hidden rather well.
I could so easily slip away and die.

And if I were to simply slip away and die,
I swear this world would be better off.
There’s not a valuable difference I could make.
The words of care I long for are forgotten when you scoff.

I build my sense of strength; illusion of a wall.
I speak in a way where you’d think I’m fine.
But it;s slowly been slipping and you’ve started to see.
I’ve started to cross farther, my once solid-line.

What to do and what to stay away from,
There things have progressively begun to become one.
And the truth of me is fading like a long gone star.
Until the darkness is throughout; the process done.

You’d never guess I was the one struggling here.
I’m not the typical person with these issues.
I smile and laugh, I always seem happy.
Much unlike all those depressing statistics on the news.

I’m the one in a million of the people who smile,
That hide their pain and scars too well from you.
But honestly, I’m the one in ten, in five…
More people hurt than anyone knows to.

I’m the undiscovered statistic of depression and hate.
My aggression towards self with a smile on my face.
I’m almost beyond what most consider help-able.
But I could slip and moment; lost, without a trace.

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About Robin Elizabeth

My name is Robin Elizabeth and I'm 21. I do not create with my own ability, but with the gift God has given me.

One response »

  1. a very somber poem. I know these feelings well.

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