Talk, talk, talk

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freudThey sit me down and try to see inside,

They use words like knives,

Dissecting my mind,

Making me revisit past pains,

They take me to rooms in my mind

Locked rooms, dark rooms,

Tears flow at the scars of my soul,

I see scars and they see wounds,

They slice them open to see inside,

Old scars become new wounds,

I pick at the scab and toy with the new pain,

The talking fails once more,

Now I sit with open wounds bleeding in to my soul,

They smile and medicate,

Now I shuffle through life,

In fog free from though and care,

Longing for the days of pain when I knew it was real.

About Mr BPD

About Author. I have Borderline Personality Disorder and as a writer and poet I explore my madness through the creative arts. I have a personal belief that even in darkness light exists and it is a personal responsibility to always seek the light and I find the light in creating something.
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