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Rated: E · Poetry · Personal · #1477583
This is who I am, what I feel. Take what you want from it, it's yours to interpret.
No, they don’t know
What it’s like.
They say “you’re this, you’re that”
But who I am
Can’t be diagnosed.
They don’t know.

But they do.
The people,
The faces,
Buildings, cars,
They’re coming.
They’ll be here.
Soon, soon.
I’m going to die
They do.
They know.

They don’t know.
The voices in me.
My head.
But it’s not my head,
I’m not me.
They’re always there.

I trust them,
They’re the only people
That I can.
But they’ll still hurt me.
I know they will.
I know.

They won’t leave
But I don’t want them to.
They’re my only friends
But I hate them.
They scare me.
They scare me.

They’ll never leave me.

People try to fix me
They can try all they want
But they won’t.
They can’t.
Because they don’t know.

Pills won’t help
Pills make me sick
Make me foggy
I can’t take it,
Can’t take them.
I need my own clear.

My clear
With the faces
The voices
The people,
Buildings, cars.

It’s not clear at all.

They’re coming.
Staring.
Always.

© Copyright 2008 Belle Soleil (bellesoleil at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates have been granted non-exclusive rights to display this work.
Printed from https://writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1477583-A-Tribute-To-My-Schizophrenia