Thoughts and experiences of life and mental health

A short poem Part M-22

A short poem

I was in a dark place when I wrote this, I was trying to find the light at the end of the tunnel but it seemed to be miles away. I wanted to give up and just let go, but something inside of me kept telling me to keep going, that there is a light out there somewhere.

This poem is about that journey and the yearning for death once more. You can't see the light if you don't believe it's there, so sometimes you have to trust your instincts and keep pushing forward until you finally reach that light.

As for what will happens after that, we'll just have to wait and see...

I'm not sure if this poem will resonate with anyone else but writing it made me feel better about myself as I'm slowly becoming a better person every day.

...

Touch of death.

Call upon death and he would answer swiftly;

For in death thy answer would not be merciful.

Once caressed by death;

Existence would cease to possess meaning;

Affection becomes a foreign recollection;

Euphoria departs;

disregarded as narratives once admired.

The yearning for a touch by death once more appears to be the ultimate purpose.

Oh, how I yearn for the touch of death to call upon me once more, for the longing disrupts a life I have not pleaded for. I have been compelled to inhabit this existence, forced to wander among those abiding a lie and wandering blindly through an infinite labyrinth formulated to annihilate.

Be not dazed by your ambition for prestige or fortune human, for your existence is an endless vacuity taught by the very monster's guise as angels sent to alleviate. I wish not to live this fable executed by mere mortals.

My sights have been freed by a touch of death, for pain and misery are not all endowed by death, tangibility he yearns to bestow to those inclined to heed and give notice to.

Day in and day out I walk this drenched dirt, misplaced in notions rarely recognized by most, persuades to cease this life not wished for from onset.

Words on paper are all my thoughts become, phrases lost in translation, utterances from emotions shattered by a world encouraging destruction among its innocence.

Insanity fuelling the ink to my manuscript...

Has the phrase 'Second-hand suicide' ever grasped its presence among the abyss of emotions scampering through your being? Not wishing to commit suicide or not able to, yet the whole being cries out for some external force to end the misery? this life enforces on a soul not preferring to be alive!

The actuality of this life may be too chilling for most to interpret, this is the justification most humans occupy a life overwhelmed by dread of the enigma. Lunacy engulfs those touched by death and its pedagogy.

Mumblings of a shattered man were dismissed as words emitted by a madman.

Ye suspect me a gull; a senile being; yet the phrases uttered through lunacy be more sincere than those immersed in honey and favor.

Call upon my title once more ye fiend, for thy record be not exact. I recognize not why thee attended my bedside, yet in the climax vacated without thy trophy, fled without leaving a purpose to thy detrimental doings.