I am dying slowly,but no one can tell.
It is a quiet, painful death,
riddled with anger.
Rage has become my outlet now,
where there used to be silence and shutting down.
It will be my final stage,
as there is nothing to bargain, no way to accept.

You can never cry enough tears,
they are an endless stream.
Mental Illness.
That phrase is a dirty, hateful thing to comprehend.
I do not accept it,
thinking all my troubles come from pain in the past,
not from the diagnoses in the now.
But there it is, nonetheless,
and it spits it's nasty agenda in my face.

The hospital visits are coming all too often now,
as I seem to lose control.
Involuntary now,
they say I must go,
and I have no way to stop them.
There are tricks and traps in the system that I cannot beat.
And the drugs,
there are more and more of them all the time.
I don't want them.
I comfort myself with the sight of blood,
the sureness of pain.
That only makes them think I am sicker.
I am not sick,
I am scared and alone with no one to trust.
So they label me, rather than know me,
medicate me, rather than love me.

The pain is like a slow trickle inside,
dripping down until one day,
there will be no more.
Then I will fall asleep forever.