Why do I lay awake,
when my eyes beg to close,
and my limbs ache for rest?

Why do I drink to the bottom of the bottle,
when my head is spinning,
and my mouth is numb?

Why do I bleed,
when my wrist is screaming,
and my sheets are already stained red?

Why do I lay awake,
when I spent the entire day,
looking forward to the thought of sleep?

Let me sleep,
please.
I am so tired of being tired,
I want to rest and forget but you haunt my mind,
both awake and asleep.
I apologise for the millionth time,
crying out for you to forgive me but my words are not heard,
they never will be.
I miss you,
infinitely.
I ache from endless heart ache,
I want to rewind or at least rid my mind of you but I cannot,
both awake and asleep.

How ****** poetic,
A young girl crying locked away in her room,
but the real prison is her own head,
something no key can free her from.
She scrapes at the walls,
of her little enclosed cell,
blood trickling down from her attempts to release it's hold on her,
she shouts out but there are no guards here,
no other inmates or wardens.
She is alone.
An abandoned asylum made just for her,
a special palace of memories and torment with a plaque on the wall to commemorate the curator: herself.
She is imprisoned in her own mind,
somewhere beyond help or saving,
waiting until she rots away and doesn't feel the pain anymore.

I am lost,
searching for a place to call home.
No map,
no compass.

I am lost,
wandering until I find a place to rest.
No warmth,
no safety.

I am lost,
struggling through years hoping I can find what I am looking for.
But I don't know what that is.

Sometimes it is impossible to express myself,
not because I cannot find the right words,
but because I cannot understand what it is that I want to say.
My mind is like all the books I have ever read,
all the TV shows I have ever watched,
all the songs I have ever listened to,
twisted and spinning on repeat all at once and I cannot pick out one single thing,
let alone comprehend it.
I am a muddle of all things good, bad and ugly,
The only thing constant is the beating of the muscle under my ribs,
and even then I sometimes feel like it stops.
When people ask me
"How are you?" or even "Are you okay?"
It is so much easier to reply with a simple "Yes"
Because even though it is not,
I cannot say why.
I don't know what is wrong,
there is a disease in my mind and it is spreading,
and the cure is somewhere deep within my thoughts,
but it is muffled in so much else that I can't find it,
which is funny because I am the cure to my own sickness but I am too sick to find out what the cure is.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
did gyre and gimble in the wabe.
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
the frumious Bandersnatch!"
He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the maxome foe he sought-
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood a while in thought.
As in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came.
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack.
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
"Has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Calloh! Callay!
He chortled in his joy.
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.