My Voices

Voices...
They call for me, beckon for me to hear them. As if I had a choice.
They talk to me, like they were my only friends.
Sometimes, I believe it.
I try to be successful, put in effort and passion.
But all that comes out is trash, leaving my audience with dissatisfaction.
The voices are my own personal hecklers.
Jeering and booing from above.
I tell myself that the negativity I hear over and over is simple advice.
But the voices lie and tell me I should feel spite.
They tell me I should get into my car,
Slowly drive near their homes and watch them from afar.
I want to resist, but it feels so enticing.
To haunt them and fill 'em with dread.
Let them panic and panic until they drop dead.
The voices laugh when I have these thoughts.
Find it silly that I would imagine myself having guts to let my haters rot.
Sometimes they make me feel pathetic, hated, and negative.
Why try to follow my passion if it's only followed with me being combative?
Once, the voices told me to grab a critic of mine and drag him into my attic.
He's dead now. Died just trying to be a constructive writing fanatic.
I listened, hoping they would then vanish.
But it failed. They refuse to perish.
They just taunt me about the murder.
I still visualize the body and it's deceased corpse.
His eyes eskew and bloodshot.
His hands covered in maggots as it decayed.
The smell of rotting flesh.
It fills the attic. I long for a smell that's fresh!
The voices are persistent. Visualized as ugly and revolting as I think of them in my head.
Their monstrous, raspy laugh makes me wish I was dead.
It's a really ugly voice.
They make you feel hate, and like you never have a choice.
Category:Poetry
Category:Mental Illness