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Literature Text
Don’t Go To The Knife
19-4-15
There was a time I could write;
Once upon a long time ago.
I could mould words into stories
That defied my very logic and became truly great.
Poems poured from my fingertips to grace pure pages
With words written gracefully.
There was a time I could write;
Once upon a long time ago.
There was a time I could feel;
Once upon a very long time ago.
I knew the colours of happiness, sadness, joy and peace
And recognised shades in between.
My heart raced, soared, soured and suddenly dropped
By the blinking of God’s eye.
There was a time I could feel;
Once upon a very long time ago.
There was a time I used to harm;
Once upon four years ago.
I used pain to prove that feelings existed inside my soul
And that I was not as empty as it seemed I was.
Blades flew deep and stitches came
And it all went to shit, but I could feel.
There was a time I used to harm;
Once upon four years ago.
19-4-15
There was a time I could write;
Once upon a long time ago.
I could mould words into stories
That defied my very logic and became truly great.
Poems poured from my fingertips to grace pure pages
With words written gracefully.
There was a time I could write;
Once upon a long time ago.
There was a time I could feel;
Once upon a very long time ago.
I knew the colours of happiness, sadness, joy and peace
And recognised shades in between.
My heart raced, soared, soured and suddenly dropped
By the blinking of God’s eye.
There was a time I could feel;
Once upon a very long time ago.
There was a time I used to harm;
Once upon four years ago.
I used pain to prove that feelings existed inside my soul
And that I was not as empty as it seemed I was.
Blades flew deep and stitches came
And it all went to shit, but I could feel.
There was a time I used to harm;
Once upon four years ago.
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This could be called NaPo #19.1, for it is written during the month of NaPo on day 19 and it is the second poem tonight, but I don't want it to be and so it shall not.
I am struggling. Really struggling. I feel nothing but numbness (which is as much of a feeling as black is a colour, thanks GenevieveL for that analogy). I laugh at things that I *should* find funny because my brain goes "It's a joke...laugh you troll, laugh!" and not because I genuinely find the things funny. I barely cry, have barely cried in a long time. And the knives are starting to look good again after so many years without them. I plan ways to die and then realise I don't feel like dying -- I don't feel like living either but that's a moot point -- so I abandon the plans. I'm a broken robot, surviving once again instead of living. Do I want my grave stone to read "Here lies Jo. She lived until she died." (more thanks to GenevieveL ) or do I want it to read something fantastic. I need to find my feelings before it becomes too late. I need to stay away from the knives.
I am struggling. Really struggling. I feel nothing but numbness (which is as much of a feeling as black is a colour, thanks GenevieveL for that analogy). I laugh at things that I *should* find funny because my brain goes "It's a joke...laugh you troll, laugh!" and not because I genuinely find the things funny. I barely cry, have barely cried in a long time. And the knives are starting to look good again after so many years without them. I plan ways to die and then realise I don't feel like dying -- I don't feel like living either but that's a moot point -- so I abandon the plans. I'm a broken robot, surviving once again instead of living. Do I want my grave stone to read "Here lies Jo. She lived until she died." (more thanks to GenevieveL ) or do I want it to read something fantastic. I need to find my feelings before it becomes too late. I need to stay away from the knives.
© 2015 - 2024 MagicalJoey
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Thank you for sharing this wonderful writing. It can help many , I am sure, get a glimpse of understanding into this very obscure condition. 