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Karamazov Diaries

Poetry about mental health and being a general basket case.

In love with my pride

When I was younger I used to watch a lot of romantic movies. These movies so often contained pivotal moments in which the romantic lead would feel betrayed. The main love interest fucked up and our favourite characters were faced with a choice on whether to forgive. I remember watching, incredulous, wondering why she didn’t just give in. She clearly wanted to love him so why couldn’t she just swallow her pride? Turn over and let go of all the anger and doubt and drown herself in blissful ignorance.

Such is the naivety of youth. Now I find myself lying beside a guilty body every night. Waves of energy flowing between us, willing me to unclench and wrap myself in him. I knew I wanted to, I wanted so badly to love him and every pop culture reference screamed at me to give in. But I never did. I would cling so tightly to my principles that love had no room to squeeze into my embrace. And now I am left, alone, with only my pride to accompany me. Asking myself repeatedly, is it worth it?

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Abuse

Keeping secrets is for the guilty and I have done nothing wrong.

He uses ‘I love you’ as a noose to hang you with.

I’m sad

I’m sad,

I’m sad near enough everyday,

Sometimes I can feel it,

Writhing inside,

Suffocating my heart,

Forcing me to crawl through the day,

While I’m slowly crushed inside.

As I desperately escape towards the sun,

It blocks my view,

Covering the landscape in dust,

Rotting away the edges.

Sometimes it hides away,

Lurking behind overdue reports and shopping lists,

But it’s still there,

The pin prick behind every heart beat.

I’m sad because I think you’ll leave me,

Or maybe it’s because I know you will,

Eventually the strain of constant reassurance will break your back,

And you’ll be too weak to carry me with you when you go.

You say you worry about me,

Since I’m looking far too skinny,

you don’t understand how funny it is,

When this creature is always eating.

Bitch

When I go away,

I look at random people in the street,

Survey them up and down,

Judging them,

And enjoying it,

But that all pales in comparison,

When I realise,

That they probably have happier lives,

Than me.

As much as I enjoy,

To compare my weight with theirs,

The symmetry of my face,

With their features,

Bulbous,

Out of place,

There’s no mistaking that radiance in their smile,

The brightness behind the eyes,

The way their whole body reacts,

To a laugh,

Genuine and clear,

Cutting through my judgement,

And twisting my soul.

So full of life,

A life I could only fake,

Judging other people,

That was my last mistake.

And though they’ve fallen from the skies,
Still I salute to dead magpies.

Just one more night

There’s a little girl screaming in my head,

Tearing chunks from her scalp and battering her face,

And all I do is watch.

Sometimes I get the strength to scream back,

Aggressively and full of spite,

‘Why are you still here?

No one wants you

You were entertaining for a short time but now I need to sleep.

Adults need sleep,

Adults need to make money,

Adults need to stand firm against the current and provide.’

But she doesn’t care,

She keeps on wailing as I wrap my hands around her throat,

Watching her eyes protrude and bones snap,

I just wanted to make her stop.

But still in the night I hear her,

Tiptoeing through the room and edging into my bed,

she entraps me in her arms,

Stronger than the force I thought had killed her.

And so I welcome her,

albeit reluctantly,

Gather her into my heart and pray for forgiveness,

Rocking her gently,

Too weak to fight her off,

Sighing,

‘Well, ok, just one more night.’

Tongues

Go on,

Take a chunk like they have done before,

But on the way out be sure to lock the door.

There’s monsters out there asking to come in,

Looking like angels but dripping in sin.

Tongues outstretched trying to get a taste,

Puke out some love then leave in a haste,

But I don’t care anymore, just look what you’ve done,

Moulded a killer from this awkward son.

Ivan

You think you maybe going crazy,

But it’s just the devil that’s making you lazy,

Try overpower him but you know you’d rather,

Create a disciple to kill your father.

And in the night you see them in the trees,

Throwing whispers to bring you to your knees,

And as they beat you like a decrepit horse,

You protect your brain while your soul grows coarse.

And still they whisper from the trees,

Bleeding from the inside you beg god please,

But yet again you get no answer,

Riddled with tumours, no sign of cancer,

Slowly coming to the realisation,

That life is simply an interrogation.

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