The Death of a Poet

I feel as if I might die soon.
Like I must keep writing and writing and pushing out this poetry.
My voice has to be heard, because I've been screaming and screaming and my throat is starting to get raw.

I look in the mirror and see this hideous creature, hell bent on hurting me.
Cruel.

One minute I fight against the worlds view on who I should be and how I should look, the next I gaze into the mirror lost it he reflection I see.
I see nothing.
I am void.
Empty. 
This media induced bipolar disorder is exhausting.

I feel as if I might die soon. 
My fingers pour out as much as I can as fast as I can, but it's not enough.
Nothing is ever enough.
I am not enough.

I have given up trying to fit the media's mold.
It's impossible.
But my own mold feels unattainable.
This battle within myself.
One half pushes for perfection, the other struggles to keep up.
I am my own media, I am my own peer pressure, I am my own bully. 
I am I am I am. 
I am unattainable. 


Exhaustion roils inside,
but my brain refuses to turn off.
I cannot sleep.
I cannot focus.
It's all void of meaning.
I have millions of thoughts, ideas, desires, and questions.
But as quickly as I think of them, they disappear.

Writing out this poetry.
It's a spilling of my guts upon a page. 
This is my therapy.
Because, I feel as if I might die soon. 

I lay in bed, shut off the lights, pulled up the covers and stared at the wall and felt the thought.
I felt it inside.
I feel as if I might die soon.

I feel deeply unsettled.
Neither upset nor happy.
Perhaps it is not a physical death, 
but the end of an era.
Time to start anew.  

This is the death of a poet.