I need to get outside this mental prison,

But I know every wall I hit is one I envisioned.

They say it’s seasonal, chemical, passing through—

Funny how it stays no matter what I do.

I inventory thoughts like evidence,

Cross-examining every consequence.

Nothing sticks, nothing leaves,

Just the echo of what I believe.

They call it overthinking—

I call it standing trial

With a judge that looks like me

And never once smiles.

I keep waiting for that sweet kiss of death,

Knowing full well it isn’t rest.

It’s not relief, it’s just a void

Where nothing hurts because nothing’s employed.

I don’t want silence, I don’t want peace,

I want the noise to loosen its teeth.

I don’t want to end—I want escape,

But every door just replicates.

I romanticize the wreckage like it means something more,

Call it depth when it’s habit, call it truth when it’s lore.

I learned early how to narrate pain,

Turn decomposition into something named.

If I sound articulate, don’t be fooled—

I’ve just learned how to decorate the wound.

Awareness isn’t wisdom, it just sharpens the blade,

Lets you watch yourself rot in HD.

They say “you know better,” like that’s a cure,

Like insight keeps the blood from pooling on the floor.

If knowing was enough, I’d be free by now—

But knowledge doesn’t teach the body how.

I keep waiting for that sweet kiss of death,

Still aware it’s counterfeit rest.

It promises quiet, delivers decay,

A permanent answer to a temporary day.

I don’t want numb, I don’t want gone,

I want the strength to stay conscious and wrong.

If living hurts, at least it’s true—

The lie is thinking death will do.

I’m like a young Edgar Allan Poe,

Spitting live from under the floorboards,

Heart still pounding through the prose,

Buried conscious, not corpse nor lord.

I hear the world above me breathe,

Footsteps pacing over grief.

I’m not dead, I’m not alive—

I’m trapped in the act of staying inside.

So don’t sell me the kiss of death,

I’ve studied it, I know the text.

It’s not an ending, it’s erasure—

A silent theft disguised as pleasure.

If there’s a way out, it isn’t clean,

It isn’t quick, it isn’t seen.

It’s choosing breath when breath feels thin,

And calling that defiance—not a win.

The floorboards creak.

That means I’m still heard.