new poem

Schizophrenic

Alone, she sits, upon her bed
the voices talking in her head.
they praise, they talk, they are her friends
they tell her she'll meet them when everything ends.
This girl, you see, looks nothing weird,
she's not one to be hated, disliked, nor feared,
but inside her mind, storms are raging,
a violent uproar, the voices are staging.
They tell her what will happen to her,
alas, not of things that once were,
but are, will be, of what is to come,
the horror of her future from which she can't run.
The pain she'll endure, the fear she'll know,
the burning days and the freezing snow
of love and hate that consume her life,
she sees her world filled with nothing but strife.
The voices today were louder than before,
like in her mind they had opened a door,
allowing their voices to spill through her thoughts
letting her hear and know their plots
to accept her as one of their very own
as long as her blood has been verily sown
upon her arms, with her skin gone pale
her soul released from her mortal jail.
She wants to meet these voices she hears
for they know her sorrows and her fears,
they help her when she needs to talk
and they're always there, wherever she'll walk.
So there she sits, upon her bed
lazily resting down her head,
a knife gripped in her left hand,
a note laying on her nightstand,
explaining the reason for her early passing,
and the light, with shadows it's casting.
she draws the blade along her arm,
she worries not about the harm,
the pain, the blood, for she knows for sure
the voices will be wait to greet her.
As her consciousness fades, the blood is spilled,
and with black her vision is filled,
she hears the voices for one final time,
laughing, raucous, and yet so sublime,
and in her dying moment, she hears them say,
"We all shall remember, that this is the day
when we took the life of an innocent one
and now we must leave, for our task is done,
your life was wasted, your curiosity took hold,
and so your life, to us, was sold"
And there she lay, no longer alive,
the alarm was sounding, a quarter past five,
but it went on, piercing the night,
for no one was there for this sorry sight,
a bloodied girl, who's life the voices ruled,
lying dead, whilst her blood silently pooled.