Crimson-Graphite

I reach my hand out to you As you fall into a never ending nothingness The all consuming black eats you alive Tinted only with red. Satan takes his toll, And all I can do is watch As you pay the price of the underworld. Because believe me, You aren't the only one in hell.

"I'm not crazy!" I yell, my eyes threatening to release the flood I've been struggling to hold back. "And you can't convince me otherwise!" I'm surrounded by white, all white. The walls are white, the bed is white, the outfit forced upon me is white. There's no speck of dust or dirt for me to look at, stare at, to see something darker than white. I hear a buzz, as what I know is a camera zooms in and captures my every move, my every scream, and every tear I shed. It's been two months, 27 days, 19 hours, and 53 minutes since I got here. With nearly 137 emotional breakdowns, 29 mental breakdowns, and 3 breakout attempts, it's safe to say I des

It's lunch, The only time not in the halls, I get the privilege to see him. He sits across the area, Surrounded by a group of friends, Not allowing me to see through. Then red sea parts, And I can finally get a good glimpse. I smile to myself, But my friends know. They can laugh and tease, Causing my face red. My heart beats faster, Uncontrollable. I play calm, And wait for my face to pale. Just hanging out with my friends. My mind doesn't approve. Go, hurry! Tell him, now! He knows, What harm is there? NO! It'll ruin the friendship! God, Will you just shut up? I ask. So I head over, Planning to say what I feel. Yet I never do. I ge

Checkered faces cross the field, Echoing with cries of fear and anguish. Tents are scattered as well as limbs, And the grass and dirt are stained red. There is no such thing as a civil hell.