The words hit the paper like the tears hit my wrists;

The ink flows like the blood from my arms;

The open spaces

Letters spinning

Words shaking

Sentences sliding

Over the page like the terrible voices through my ears and into my brain


And now the voices are quiet

The horror expressed

The fear acknowledged

And silenced.


I am the words on the page and the ink in the pen.

I am the thoughts in my head and the men in the corner.

I am silence.

I am poetry.

I am free.


This poem is about: 



This poem is about my personal struggle with Schizoaffective disorder and two ways I cope with it: one healthy, one not. I am only nineteen, but I have had this disorder for eleven years, and during that time I took up self harm and poetry to escape the constant torment of my depression and hallucinations. This poem is about those two coping mechanisms. 

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