POEM STARTER
You are convinced you can see mysterious figures lurking in the shadows. Write a poem about them.
Choose a specific style of poetry that would be suitable for this theme.
Manic
I canât see their faces.
Pitch black,
zero deciphering features.
Who are you?
Who am I looking at?
I used to believe
the bodies surrounding me
were those of loyalty,
kindness,
compassion.
Souls I would want to be around.
Nonetheless,
I find myself scratching at my face,
ripping at my eyes,
yanking at my hair,
screeching and yelping,
wishing for someone to hear me.
But their voices are always there
in the back of my head.
They wonât stop.
They will not stop.
No matter how many suppressants
I shove forcefully down my throat.
No matter how many times
I visit a therapist,
or tell my family.
All I get is stares,
almost like I am crazy.
It isnât me.
itâs them.
Why does no one understand that?
Canât you see them too?
Canât you see them too?
I know they are there.
I know they are the reason
people look at me like I am manic.
But that is not me they are looking at.
They are friends,
arenât they?
Doesnât everyone have friends?
Why am I weird for having friends?
Everybody has them.
Quit looking at me like I am weird.
Quit looking at me like I am manic.
Quit looking at me like I am psychotic.
Quit looking at me.
Quit looking at me.
I press my hands
hard against my ears.
I can still hear them.
They wonât go away.
Their voices still linger.
Their screeching,
their pleading,
their squeaking,
their ear splitting words
wonât get out of my head
no matter how hard I push.
I donât know what to do.
What should I do?
What should I do?
Why wonât they leave?
I donât want them here.
I want the voices gone.
I canât do this anymore.
Please make them go away.
Tear out my brain,
rip them out from inside,
twist their vocal chords.
Make them stop.
Just make them stop.
I promise I am not crazy.
I swear I am not.
Maybe this is just what it means
to have friends?