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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic

Short poem describing my cycle of depression


Speech is a weapon that poisons the soul. 

To with every “hello”, spoken or thought, die a thousand deaths as I glance alone in a room swarming with the spiders of humanity. 

The past cuts, and in the realm of today, they echo with every sense of familiarity. 

I know you and am afraid, and the cut deepens across my heart.  

Hidden and hiding, I have become the master of shadows, and it is not enough. 

All the words I could say lead to death.  

In the black I reach out to you, and I can feel my skin rip apart, unraveling from my body deeper and deeper, piercing below the muscle, yet that pain is not the cut.  

I do not feel, for I am not me, just another playing at make believe in a world of mirrors. 

I do not like mirrors. 

Isolation is my sanctuary the loneliness is my guardian. 

A thousand tomorrows will lead to better days, and yet I am trapped in a record on repeat. 

I no longer try to escape. 

Flowers grow here, along the cracks in the mirrors I have broken.  

Flowers grow here, and as they climb along the cracks, I can paint infinity. 

When the flowers are at their peak, light pierces through the shadow and reaches out to me, promises of a never-ending dream sounding throughout. 

As I follow, the mirrors fade, the shadows fade, and my mind is clear. 

Words become easier to find and the spiders become flowers dancing in the field.  

I am alive. 

I find footing and begin to climb up the mountain of regrets that has grown while I hid. 

At the topanother mirror lays before me, and as I try to look beyond the tainted image reflected back at me, I can see that the flowers are gone now, replaced once more with spiders. 

Frightened, I lose footing and fall. 

My body rolls down the mountain of regret, smashing against the sharp edges of the rock, and I can feel my skin rip apart, unraveling from my body deeper and deeper, piercing below the muscle.  

I fall for years, reaching out for anything that could slow the fall, yet all the flowers have left me. 

I am alone. 

Eventually I crash back into the shadows, and as my battered and beaten body looks around the black, I see that all the mirrors have been repaired. 

Even the flowers that I grew myself are gone now. 

I crawl to the mirrors and cry as I am taunted by the body that is not my own, and I lose myself.  

All of the pain and grief that awaits me here is nothing compared to the ragdoll being thrown into the dirt after being abandoned by its child. 

Used and worn I will wait here with the me who is not me, and though I will cry, I will be safe. 

Isolation is my blanket and loneliness is my god.  

Speech is a weapon that poisons my soul. 

I am not alive. 




Submitted: March 09, 2021

© Copyright 2021 TheDemonWriter. All rights reserved.

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Some very powerful imagery in this poem. Somewhat relatable; words can do so much damage.

Tue, March 9th, 2021 6:31pm

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