Tomorrow, the same

I’m tired of being broken, of carrying words unspoken. I’m tired of being sad, of missing what I never had.

I’m tired of this pain— a never-ending, cold, hard rain that soaks my bones, seeps through my skin, and settles quietly within.

It never stops. It never fades.

It carves its home inside my veins. I’m tired of feeling trapped inside my head, of fighting thoughts that wish me dead.

I’m tired of silence screaming loud, of feeling lost within a crowd. I’m tired of pretending I’m okay— of surviving just to face another day.

I’m so damn tired of never feeling whole, of dragging this weight that lives inside my soul— and knowing tomorrow will feel the same.

Hypocrite Hypocrite Hypocrite

I’m the biggest fake, A mirror cracked down the center I have all this knowledge Ruled by logic A lighthouse with no shore But when the table is turned, I have no self-control, A compass spinning in saltwater

Hypocrite Hypocrite Hypocrite

After so many years Searching for the answers Searching for whys For whens For where Digging through hours like graves Collecting information like a bookworm devours a library, Eating pages instead of peace

Hypocrite Hypocrite Hypocrite

I can recite to help others, To advise, to heal others I demand they see, they change, they love themselves, accept themselves See themselves through my rose-colored glasses, Tinted like stained glass in a burning church Always finding their silver lining, Polishing clouds while standing in the storm Always pushing themselves forward

Hypocrite Hypocrite Hypocrite

I can see my own demons, call them by their names, Tag them like animals behind glass I recognize between them all Based off the claws reaching for my control, Scratching at the door of my ribs I push down my own voice of what to do, Bury the instructions under my tongue How to stop the vicious cycle

Hypocrite Hypocrite Hypocrite

But yet I am unable to stop them; I allow them to bring my past up— Once defeated experiences Rise like drowned ghosts That just multiply as a mirror showing the truth, A hallway of reflections with no exit

Delusion

We live in a world of delusion, chasing Tomorrow, escaping today, calling it hope, calling it progress, while suffering quietly stays.

We swear we are fighting for something— a dream, a goal, a someday reward, not knowing if effort means meaning or just another illusion we guard.

Dreams change as life keeps on shifting, the finish line quietly moves, what once felt solid turns vapor, a mirage we’re trained to pursue.

Dragged forward by purpose invented, a direction that looks like a plan, just to feel less lost in the motion, just to say I know where I stand.

But really we’re stuck in repetition, a cycle, a circle, a spin— a spiral of endless obligations, checking the box just to begin.

So let’s live inside of the delusion that everything works out somehow, that everyone gets their ending, their moment, their then, their now.

But what if the ending keeps changing, keeps shifting its shape and its face? What if “happy” is only a costume we give to the life we can’t place?

Insightful, you called me— but being a “good person” doesn’t shield me from my own emotions. I feel them all, even the old ones you think you can hide.

I don’t want people to see how much my wings have broken, how much I’ve been trying to pretend I’m not the problem.

Untold

It’s been years — I told the spiral to close. Change came, better stitched over old cracks. I kept my hands busy, my mouth polite, my life tidy.

Then the first you — the one I leaned toward before the rest — arrived like a memory that refuses to behave. Not the man who broke me. Not the one with the bruises I learned to hide.

Maybe I am inventing trouble to stay awake; Maybe I am rehearsing danger in safe rooms. You appear in the quiet like someone whispering into my phone — reacting to my day as if we share a screen.

Need tastes familiar and poisonous. We drew our boundaries in clean, decisive lines: I keep them. I respect her. I keep him. I respect him — I mean it, I mean it — I love him.

And yet — the rule bends. Common sense peels like old wallpaper. Those eyes: a small, illicit electric. A silent command. A dare without permission. A habit I thought dead.

I breathe calm across the table; inside, the vines tighten. Knots in my throat learn new names. I swallow the rest — the loud part — and tuck it into paper folds.

Dammit. I’m hooked. Again. What the hell is wrong with me?

I won't say the part that would make it real. I leave blanks where the guilty words would sit: …… I file the ache under private things, under “do not open.”

The children laugh, the day is bright, their joy becomes my guiding light. I give and give, I play my part, their happiness tattooed on my heart.

But still, you ache, a whisper cries, your quiet wishes, pushed aside. A stop, a sight, a fleeting thing— the smallest joy you hoped to bring.

How dare you want? the harsh voice hisses, Isn’t it enough, their smiles, their kisses? Were you not raised to give, not take? To smother hunger for others’ sake?

Good mothers don’t ask, they provide, they swallow need, they step aside. To want is selfish, to need is wrong— to matter less has made you strong.

And so I wrestle, torn in two— ashamed for wanting, aching too. Confused, I choke on what I feel, the scolding burns, the longing’s real.

It isn’t the “thing” I mourn or miss, not the ride, the stop, the fleeting bliss. It’s the echo left when my voice grows small, when my joy feels like it matters least of all.

Ungrateful child, the voice condemns, always wanting, it never ends. You should be happy they shine so bright— your shadows mean you’ve done it right.

But another voice, weary, pleads: Even selfless hearts have needs. You are not lesser for wanting too, your happiness belongs with you.

One thread of joy, that’s all I ask, not to unweave the family’s mask. Just one small stitch, a simple sign, that my happiness weaves into theirs with mine.

These poems were inspired today, when asked to explain my compulsions. I will Post each Poem individually.

The Voices of OCD I want to you to imagine each of these poems happening at the exact same time simultaneously, as if all at once.

Me / The Fixer / New Problem – "Fragments"

I’m shattered— torn between voices. Spinning. Tornadoes inside my skull, each one louder, sharper, pulling pieces of me away.

I want out. I want silence. I want to scream.

The Fixer slithers in: One more ritual. Just one. Then you’ll be safe. I promise.

I know it’s a lie. I know. But I can’t stop. I reach out— ritual becomes survival.

I move in circles, hoping for stillness.

New Problem sneaks in: But did you miss something? A flaw? A step? You failed. Start over.

I am lost— a ghost in the wind. No peace, no pause.

These poems were inspired today, when asked to explain my compulsions. I will Post each Poem individually.

The Voices of OCD I want to you to imagine each of these poems happening at the exact same time simultaneously, as if all at once.

OCD Panic – "The Siren Screams"

STOP EVERYTHING. This is life or death. Can’t you feel it crawling? Under your skin? In your lungs? It’s wrong—everything is wrong.

Wash it. Scrub it. Check it— AGAIN.

Don’t listen to Logic. Logic is blind. Logic will get you killed.

Do you want to be the reason? The cause of it all? It will happen. You’ll regret this moment forever.

DO IT. DO IT. DO IT.

I am your only defense. Obey me, or drown in the aftermath.