Pain Poem by Claire Abbott

A thorn, like a thousand daggers rips at the skin.
The blood pours, the wound gapes and I feel free.
A match, intense like the sun burning at the skin.
It smoulders and smells, turns black and the hurt comes out.
A tablet or two or three or four,
Freedom in my hands.
Swallow quick, don't be sick,
You'll be free from these horrid lands.
A knotted rope, a noose from which to hang,
Something I will suceed in.
Something stops me; I know better.
I fall down, right down, the darkness envelopes me in its compressing arms.
Pushing me, harder, harder down.
I've fallen so hard.
The numbness prevails, the guilt, anger, emptiness in my tomb where I lie slowly suffocating in my own mind.
My breath rips out tearing my lungs, sobs and tears galore.
I fight, more and harder, yet each ladder rung breaks and I tumble.
Again and again.
In dispair, cryiong out for help.
Noone cansee, no-one can hear, no-one wants to.
Outside this terrible pit of shame, my body soldiers on.
Day turns into night, night into day.
Time doesn't matter, I fight till I can't fight no-more.
I can't, I won't, I don't want to accept.
There's more than this, more than the bitterness and emptiness, the harshness and hatred of the mind, my world.
Somewhere I will be free.
Flying high above the clouds, soaring, singing, smiling.
All the things I have forgotten how to do.
But now I go to war again, the battle may be won, but the war's not over yet!