mental-health

Umbrellas


Cubicle of the room.

I look out of the window;

I see umbrellas

And endless rain frozen in the air.

There are no doors in my cubicle.

Drops don’t let the air in.

Less and less oxygen left.

The umbrellas keep moving.

I am watching them move

As my face becomes pale.

Beating against the glass and walls,

But the fate has been determined.

I cover myself with white paint

To match the walls

And dissolve in the cubicle.

Lack of oxygen shows;

I am blue.

I am lonely.

Every umbrella is in a separate cubicle,

Each is slowly suffocating.

I choose to end it quicker.

I dissolve in white paint.

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Dancing on my death bed


Words. So many words,

They don’t fit on a page.

I love every one of them;

I despise all of them.

Whirling in my gut,

They become a part of me;

With each word written

A big piece of my spirit is torn away.

Eternal struggle

Of the pain of letting them go,

Of my poetic intimacy,

And my weary consciousness,

Is extended for too long;

The bloodcurdling levels

Of my never-ending misery

Exceed the wonders.

Serenity and inspiration

Are my best friends

That are leading my path

To the grave.

Even after my life

Comes to an end,

They will still linger

On my death bed.

When I’m at the verge of dying

Look into my eyes,

And you might still see

Them dance in

The fire of my agony.