R O M A N C E (poem about glamourising mental-health)
donāt make it sound romantic,
Itās like drowning in the Atlantic,
itās not a fan-fic,
I canāt stand it,
so now Iām ranting,
and the notion,
of this emotion is rancid,
OCD is a never-solving riddle,
I donāt āwash my hands a littleā
or put my stationary in the middle,
itās bigger than an acronym,
itās not fun, a fad, thatās rad,
itās telling my mum and dad,
that the kid they had
is sad,
and quietly going mad;
itās pills and fluoxetine,
being eighteen, nineteen,
quiet screams,
and routines,
than you follow like an order,
clean your phone, your glasses,
your school bag,
your schoolwork goes in the bin,
because you donāt like who touched it
and now youāre failing all of your classes,
time passes,
and this illness harasses
you
like a person on the street
a bully at your feet,
makes you retreat
so you have social anxiety right?
but youāre at a party every Saturday night,
when thereās people who might,
not even go to the store because theyāre afraid of the line,
OCD is being constantly indescive
a āwhere shall I sit?ā
when a phobia becomes violent,
and you canāt make up your mind
about where your mind is,
when your body is a canvas and you paint in red,
wear long-sleeves in the summer,
to cover where razors bled,
kissed your skin and fled,
and now you canāt get out of bed
but at least self-harm,
gets you out of your head,
being depressed isnāt being tired
itās an anchor in your chest,
bulimia isnāt pretty,
itās sickly,
and imitating false anorexia
doesnāt make you sexier,
but donāt say itās for boys to text you,
itās not an attribute
itās a weapon, a noose,
do you also find knives attractive?
social media is interactive
but it can hold you captive,
donāt adapt to it,
donāt make it glamorous,
your illness is not a model,
it doesnāt pout for cameras,
a panic attack
is a blood curdling scream
that no-one hears,
and Iām not trying to offend,
I just want to comprehend
How my worst nightmare, become my generations trend?
maybe weāre shining a spotlight on this and diluting the stigma,
or maybe the whole thing has just become an enigma,
a balancing act, where no-one can say the right thing, so we all just stay silent,
Iām not an advocate
who wants you to cut,
and please nourish yourself
donāt starve and punish yourself,
itās not a game, itās not playground fun,
a trigger isnāt just something on the architecture of a gun,
it is not a small irritation,
frustration,
itās not an infatuation
you use to impress your generation
Iām tired of these stereotypical claims,
categories and lanes,
young adult novel popularity
where the girl is just something to save
when sheās a slave,
to the way
her mind behaves,
I lost the best years of my life to these chains,
and I refrain from ever falling into that rabbit hole again,
just because tumblr taught me to glorify my pain,
I write poems on there too,
but theyāre a helping hand
not a brand,
I wear because itās cool
the real victims lost their voices,
so you can call this a mouthpiece,
bipolar disorder is not being moody,
itās not some alternative niche,
I collapsed in my bathroom,
have metal plates in my jaw,
so itās important to speak while you can,
turn a whisper into a roar.
origamiaround
titsay
2087
baratheonpilled
janainaart
andulkaphoto
