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Literature Text
He smiles but the corners of his lips twitch
He speaks politely but his voice quivers
He speaks to you honestly but is unable to meet your eye
Is this someone you want to speak to?
Is this someone you want to know?
Is this someone you feel comfortable around?
He sees you losing interest
He sees you check your watch
He sees he is not enough to hold you interest
You make up some excuses
You have somewhere to be
You need to get out of here before he's appealing
He says farewell graciously
He knows why you leave
He sees what you feel inside and respects your decision
Why did he think he was good enough
Why did he approach me
Why did he think he was worthy to be with someone like me?
He sits alone in the corner
He sees everything
He drinks his drink and ponders upon his failings
He speaks politely but his voice quivers
He speaks to you honestly but is unable to meet your eye
Is this someone you want to speak to?
Is this someone you want to know?
Is this someone you feel comfortable around?
He sees you losing interest
He sees you check your watch
He sees he is not enough to hold you interest
You make up some excuses
You have somewhere to be
You need to get out of here before he's appealing
He says farewell graciously
He knows why you leave
He sees what you feel inside and respects your decision
Why did he think he was good enough
Why did he approach me
Why did he think he was worthy to be with someone like me?
He sits alone in the corner
He sees everything
He drinks his drink and ponders upon his failings
Literature
Scars
I’ve spent far too many years
painting on my skin.
In shades of red and silver;
I can’t find where it begins.
My medium takes too long to dry
and the mistakes will never fade;
placed upon me in white lines
that can never be unmade.
It’s hard to leave pain behind
when it is written on your wrists—
art I could never understand,
and couldn’t quite resist.
A permanent reminder
of things that I have been;
Sorrow lasts forever
when it is cut into your skin.
Literature
Bipolar Disorder
Look over your shoulder. They're watching you.
Tighten your stomach muscles.
Bounce your leg up and down.
Faster.
Faster.
"Are you okay?"
No.
"I'm fine."
Shut up.
Don't say anything.
Feel it, feel the thoughts melting from your mind.
Freeze.
Stare.
Laugh.
"What are you doing?"
Dying.
"Nothing."
They're behind you.
Kill them before they kill you.
"What's wrong?"
Please save me.
"Nothing."
Crazy. You're crazy.
No one wants you.
Pull the trigger.
Do it.
"Please tell me what's wrong."
You wouldn't understand.
"Nothing."
Laugh.
Smile.
Scream.
"Who are you? I don't know you anymore."
I'm a nobody.
I am Bipolar Disorder.
... "I don't know.
Literature
Suicide or Tea?
Should I kill myself or have a cup of tea?
I decide on the latter and I'm not sure why. Probably because I can. Life is a never-ending scroll of be-goods, be-happies, be-in-controls, be-okays, be-strongs and be-appreciatives. So what's another day?
Just another day closer to death.
Still, life seems incredibly long, don't you think? So long, it's hard to see the end and nearly impossible to touch even with a knife in my hand that could easily skewer my heart, make it squirm and still like a dying nightingale sealing its death with a pathetic squeal of almost-song.
Life is pain and people in pain are a pain in the ass. Perhap
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