A mind like a broken record. Spinning in repeat. A mind with a broken decor. Held me in defeat.
Sometimes shrivelled on the floor. Yet smiling at all I greet. Seldom courage did I implore. As I wished for my heart to cease to beat.
My synapses in a constant state of war. My depression sometimes indiscreet. Always worrying about what was before. Constant feeling of being obsolete.
Then I couldn't take the silence anymore. And realised I was in a state of deceit. A prisoner of my own war. And that without the bitter the sweet just isn't as sweet.
That I simply needed to speak. After of which the chaos seemed to retreat. At that time, I was so fragile and weak. It wasn't in a psychiatrist's suite.
I was neither fierce nor meek. It was the ability to speak with the people I meet. About my concerns, so that I could discern.
I was not alone in these feelings that chilled my bones.
And each day got easier, clearer.
But swathes of darkness still sometimes returned.
But by that time passion burned.
In my broken mind.
So, if you get the chance to find one message in this writing.
It's find the might within to use your tongue.
And never cease to take in the breaths with your lungs.
And appreciate yourself and appreciate that you're not alone.
And that nothing is set in stone.