Calling out for help in a battle against yourself,
the statement is as meaningless as it sounds.
The fortification of resolve and willpower, made over countless years
Shall be rendered useless once the enemy is from within.
The Brutus to your Caesar, your own mind a victim of itself,
as thoughts of self destruction shroud reality in a mist,
the mist blurs reality and turns it against you, as nothing is real
our perception makes it so. Others’ realities stop making sense.
How can another, in a state like this, begin to comprehend your reality?
Forget all hope of anyone telling you anything beyond a constant
“Stop making a mountain out of a molehill.”
Sir, if I was powerful enough to make a mountain,
I would never have been the way I am right now.
Forget any dreams you had of a saviour, your knight in shining armour
does not exist. You created the tower you now call home,
Rapunzel’s hair an escape? More like an easy noose. An escape in that sense.
The face in the mirror won’t stop its constant taunt,
no one else can hear it, but you know it calls you a failure.
Hope? What is that? A forgotten word, a sensation never quite meaningful
just a four letter word people who care keep repeating and repeating
until a cacophony fills your brain and you must bash your head to make sense of it.
After that, hope starts to sound an awful lot like rope.
There is no hope of rescue as long as you keep waiting for it.
It will take time for reality to make sense, for the complicated jigsaw to fall into place
But in the end you have just yourself for company. Your own rescue.
It will take a long time before your words begin to rhyme.
And there will be endless pain before you can breathe again.
Your pain will be and addiction with no cure, each moment more painful than before.
With blurring tears streaming down your face, there you will find solace
but pain is a lover whom you need to let go of, no matter how much it hurts.
There is a long way to go before you put away the bloodstained sleeved shirts.
A long time before you no more wear a full sleeve in the summer months.
A long way to go before your sadness is a phase more than your being.
At the end the blackbird singing in the dead of night, needs to take wing by itself.
Taste the freedom of the skies, burnt, cut, scarred, wounded, broken, but free.

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