The pain swallows me in,
not even giving me a second to think about it.
I don't know where I'm going,
why I'm going,
or if I will come out alive.
I like to call this place Life.
In Life, I drop down to depressions so deep,
I'm lucky I'm alive.
Suicide flows through my brain,
seeping into the cracks of my memory.
These are times that I won't be able to forget.
You can't just forget these times.
They stay with you,
latched on like a leech,
not letting go.
I cry all the time,
not knowing when I can come home from this hell.
I just want to know I'm safe,
know that they care.
But in Life, no one cares.
Not even yourself.
I get bruised and battered,
torn and trashed
between thoughts of suicide and depression.
I just get sucked in.
There's no helping me now.
I've gone in too deep,
pushed too hard,
cried too much,
or felt too bad.
There's no helping me.
Yeah. Stupid poem.
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