nothing changes. left away in solitude surrounded by objects of labour and passion, plenty happens here at home, but all is lost to amusement, not gain. my plans for the future i have already known went awry long ago in the past when i could enjoy life for what it offered. now it just presents its curse of solitude and long held dreams failed, letting disapointment and resentment settle heavy in my heart; causing me psychoses and other labours of the soul. whispers, insulting me in silence, stir me to shout my innocence out loud to the four walls, should they hear my protest. though none foster and fewer care for my wellbeing, my beliefs are sentiment to my own derision and failure, to be as good as the next man...
this is an old draft of a poem i wrote at @ 22. i was in a real depression at the time and had been diagnosed paranoid schizophrenic. not like i killed anyone, but i did have a tough time ahead of me and is the true reason why this blog exists and why i chose to become a writer. the poem speaks volumes of information to me about hearing voices and i think its a good blurb on madness.
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