In the shadows of my mind,
twisted thoughts begin to play,
memories crack like glass,
fragments swept away.
Each moment stretches,
warped by time,
a chilling silent scream,
living on this jagged edge,
where nightmares bleed into dreams.
No rest in the darkness,
where the mind refuses peace,
compulsions grip like chains,
and all the trembling never ceases.
At the precipice of madness,
where we hang by frayed threads,
we dance upon the razor’s edge,
among the living dead.
Feelings freeze in hollow chests,
the heart forgets to feel,
violent whispers haunt each breath,
too loud to keep them sealed.
Eroding self, a concept lost,
just shadows in the rain,
each reflection shows a stranger,
marred by invisible pain.
These aren’t tales of fiction,
spun from a quiet mind,
but echoes of existence,
cruelly and chaotically entwined.
Every second’s survival
against the undertow,
in the clinical pit,
where the darkest waters flow.
So hear this cry to the broken,
the lost, the ones who dwell
in the deepest pits of the mind,
in the corners of our hell.
For we are not your case studies,
nor your cold clinical files,
we are the living proof
of surviving trials.