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Sometimes I feel like my nerves are guitar strings
being plucked open by someone
desperately trying to find the right chords
They never do.
It's as if they're playing with blocked ears,
not bothering to listen to what their songs do to me.
I know what chaos sounds like
and blinding anxiety.
Those songs travel from the tips of my nerves
to the depths of my mind
like sound waves through stereo wires.
I can feel them coming,
but am powerless to stop them.
My nerves screech,
razors strum out notes,
scratching at my thoughts.
My sight blurs,
turns to blue and gray.
Insanity looms in dark clouds,
tears fall like rain.
All control fades away
as my knees fold from my own weakness.
I become frayed and shaken,
waiting for an end,
praying to be broken,
to pull myself back together.
The noise only amplifies.
Guitars scraped, intensify.
My soul screams, searches to harmonize.
Harmony is buried somewhere deep
beneath its cries.

This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.




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