My poem of my survival

Creativity
1

I look onto my night stand and see where the knife stood the day I buried it there instead of craving to the demons wishes to plunge it in my chest.

I feel the warmth of my sisters hug and the look of her tears when she found me still alive well be it not well, the hug I could not emotionally feel because of the anhedonia I have.

I remember the look on my fathers face before being taken to the hospital, as the vale of lies of being well were lifted.

I remember all the stories of suicide I heard on the ward, knowing I could have been one of those stories told by my family as they blame themselves.

But I survived that darkest hour, I got help, still getting help to face the black dog that threatened to gnash its teeth and claim another.

I still face uncertainty on how long I will last I feel my life will go on to have no purpose, recovery is a hard battle when there is no motivation to change it.

This is my poem on my survival, I don’t know how to end it other then I hope I survive to see my recovery.

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2

Very powerful. Thanks.

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Thank you, I like your username.

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the first thing you need to realize is that poetry or any art form is not survival.

Nice try.

You’ve got to do better than that.

When you’ve done therapy, then start doing art.

Nothing good comes from a desperate state.

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Never inferred that it was just that I have an ongoing struggle with survival, which I am in therapy for, also this poem was to celebrate my wealth of words I had at the moment I wrote in contrast of the normal poverty I feel towards them.

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It’s pretty good.

Don’t short change yourself.

I don’t think the working world can relate.

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