Twisted minds
never getting anything right.
Altered memories
Flash past my eyes.
Always confused
Always misunderstood.
Hidden meanings
Words mean nothing.
The eye sees,
The mind records
“She isn’t right . . .”
someone whispers.
“What’s wrong with you?”
the man asks.
Collect your change and run.
He wouldn’t understand
anyway.
Never to tell –
Never to speak.
The rule is
not to let anyone see.
Voices whisper
unheard sounds.
Living in a dream.
a journal of dissociative identity disorder… and the lives of many who live as one
Looks like depression was talking. And maybe frustration too. May I hope that you feeling ok now is the reason why you’re not writing poems anymore?
Who says I’m not?