Narrative of the Distressed Mind

Jacob Williams and Alex Conklin
He was calm, collected,
School president elected
Never discovered, never discerned, but he seemed content.
Beautifully artistic, a pencil intrinsic, even he didn’t understand
The time that he spent
Constructing artwork in fits of rage
Angry ink blots shroud the page
A rampage of creative force
He screamed until his voice was hoarse
He had an outlet, a way to let things like this go
He was one of the lucky, one of the few

She was supposedly annoying,
Spent her time avoiding those who labeled her that way
With only nasty things to say
With only rude remarks to make
Hoping to break her spirit
Hoping to imbue her soul with rumors untrue

And they do.
She snaps, under the pressure of facts she believes bona fide
Facts she believes with all of her infected mind,
Dealt to her by her own kind

The decision is made
They’ll talk bad of her no longer,
She’s convinced she’s conquered them, that she’s won.
“They’ll have their fun with me no more” she thinks when dropping to floor
Her knife that glistens red with her own blood

Down comes the flood of tears she thought not even pain would bring
Now she knows she’s leaving everything and begs that she might take it back
Now she holds back shrieks of anger and cries of regret as she bleeds out on the bathroom floor
Nevermore will she see the smile of her sister, nine years old and growing fast.
She’ll miss it all.
Nevermore will she know the embrace of her dear mother, who raised them both.
Nevermore will she experience the tiny and insignificant joys in life
that make her smile every day.
Her time is almost up now, she’s running out of life
She races against the clock of death that counts down to her end’s arrival.
She strains and pains and pops a vein to lengthen by seconds her survival
But now she can resist no longer
Death’s cold hands gently let down her head round upon the ground with a slight thud of a sound
She dies with nobody to witness the tragedy, with nobody
to frown.

We spend our lives sunken in melancholy, partaking in endless anecdoches, with no outcome, no gain, enlightened regretfully with occhiolism, a prejudiced cynical mindset. It’s become the modern human philosophy and it poisons the minds of our youth.

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