That terrible feeling in my chest
Has come back again.
That voice inside my head
Screaming insult to my
Existence, has returned.
And she's louder than ever.
Do you know what she
Stakes through my heart?
"You are useless! You are nothing
Than a worm! Everyone hates you!
That's why you'll never be good
Enough for them."
I'm animost towards her,
Simply because she is right.
Always right, her opinion.
If only I could be better
Than myself.
Something more than me.
All that I really want
Is satisfactory.
People around me to be pleased
And appreciate who I am.
Right now, they can't.
I am only nothing.
Wishing to be more is too much.
Too much hope.
If I hope I'll be shot
Down again. Crying again.
Wishing for...hoping for more to me.
Locked up again.
See the black bars of containment?
They are more than a metaphor,
because I wish they were insubstantial.
Hard to breathe again.
Smell the fumes eating away my sanity?
It is more than a metaphor,
because I wish it was unreal.
Can't stand again.
Feel the chains pinning me to a frozen floor?
The pain is more than a metaphor.
I'll always wish they didn't exist.
They locked me away because I was
Suicidal. They can't say I didn't try,
Because I really tried to die.
To live? That's a fantasy.
That dream was too much for me.
I needed it to go away,
Along with the ache.
Oh that pain, of never being enough for them.
Always attempting to be "new and improved"
Until I got sick. Sick of the sane.
Tired of how they constantly play that game.
So, I played a game with my life.
They won before I was satisfied.
Took away my pleasure, my blade.
It was so perfet for draining the pain.
My agony leaked out,
A crimson puddle on the floor.
I don't want to heal.
Wishing that I could die was too good
because I'll never be enough.
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Veridicality and Equivocation
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