Even in the silence I still hear their cheers, Their almighty roars, Of all their forgotten fears.
Whilst drinking my gin, you tell me stories of your night and fill the ashtray with your cigarettes.
I knew that I could not fight it for you but be there by your side, to see you through the war against your mind.
I can’t find the words, I can’t begin to sympathise, My tongue is tied, Into a thousand ties.
Like any relationship, the one between mental illness and 'self' has its ups and downs, it has its own balance or sometimes an imbalance, but it takes work. Sometimes, more work than the ability we have to do so.
I sat on the cold ground of the smoke filled room. I can’t see your face but I can hear your whispers. For they scar deep beyond my dreams. To the bone, your broken promises cut my porcelain skin. Your voice lingers heavier than the smoke. I can feel your breath crisp the air I … Continue reading The Smoked Filled Room.