The world is upside down
It’s inside out
I don’t know who you are
It was like Jekyll of the Hyde seeing those colors those ugly colors
I have never been so afraid
Yet intrigued
You killed me
The pain of the fantasy you fed my mind
Through your manipulation
Your ecstasy
You said your love language was physical touch
But we never touched
A million miles away through a screen
So close but yet so far
Was it even real?
What is reality
It feels blurring, fast blurring shapes flying colors flashing
My head hurts
I keep floating away far far away into the trees
You swirled my brain with dopemine
All jus to set it, the fantasy, on fire
The mojave cocktails ripped away
And the sheet pulled to see the stone cold
Empty white walls before me
The flower although delectable
Wilting away within its organs
It’s mouth struggling to breathe
But the flower remains appealing
Until you, yes you, expose the ugliness
The vile pitiful insides
Tearing the petals away to open my eyes
To what you really wanted
A shackled slave
About the Creator
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A Slave To My Mind
When I was eight years old there was a voice constantly nagging in the back of my mind, but it wasn’t my voice. It controlled the strangest aspects of my life: where I could set my clothes down, and what and how I would eat . The voice told me what cup to choose from from the cupboard, because all the other cups had poison laced around the rim of the cup as if they were lurking, ready to end my life. The voice demanded me to wash my hands a million times throughout the day. The voice put unrealistic thoughts of my family dying in my head as a result of certain insignificant actions I would perform. For the readers of this paper, you might be frowning in confusion at the possibility that I might have been the weirdest kid to possibly roam this earth; in my brain however, all the thoughts from the voice in the back of my mind seemed perfectly logical. Although my mind convinces me these thoughts are “normal,” when I say it out loud, or even while I’m writing these words on paper, I am able to sort out the logical thoughts from the illogical ones (like what cup to choose from the cupboard). You see, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD), is not a logical disorder. As quoted from my wise therapist John, “OCD does not speak logic-keys,” or in other words, a mental disorder riding fully on emotions and anxiety is truly not a good mix for the creativity of the mind.
By Saige Whitney3 years ago in Psyche
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They impress us, and sometimes they scare us, but the ultra-rich are always interesting. Some of their famous activities include buying yachts too big to move through channels, buying ridiculously priced cars that could feed the homeless of New York for weeks, and their expensive tastes in sex workers.
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