It is all the cycles that I have had,
Of repetitive self-inflicted pain.
It is all the people who became mad.
When they tried to help, I'd only restrain.
It's not understanding the love I'd get,
And also trying to push it away.
It is never reaching the goals I set,
Or my dreams that ended, bringing dismay.
It was taking that poison to escape,
And never caring what it did to me.
It's seeing my body and feeling hate,
And trying to perfect what couldn't be.
Do you understand? Can you picture it?
My history that made my every bit.
Please comment!! This poem took me awhile to complete. I wrote it about 3 years ago and just discovered it in with a bunch of my old poems. This is the first sonnet i ever wrote!!
