I'd stopped writing poetry
 

Nothing Inspires Me
 

Everything Tires Me
 

Nobody-

Listens-

To Me
 

Even if I Scream and Plea
 

Still Nobody Listens, to me.
 

So only Nobody would listen, to a poem written by me.
 

Could someone tell me please

Is there a reason I'm so unpleasantly me?
 

Is the the illness inside of me

That makes me find it hard to breathe

That makes me find it hard to eat

When people are around because oh my god what if they are judging me based on what i eat
 

Yet somehow you have the nerve to stand your ground and tell me to turn it all around

That it takes fewer muscles to smile than to frown
 

And how dare you
 

How dare you tell me how i should feel or be in my skin

When you have never been where Ive been

Never dealt with the hurt i store within

Never had the pleasure of being the awkward friend
 

Still Nobody will listen, to me.
 

There will always be something missing from me

Gentle and Shy, lovely anxiety kissing for me.

Horrid and Wry something missing from me.

Still I try and I try to continue to try

Still I can do nothing but cry

I never meant to make you privy or let you pry

But I can no longer push this ugly feeling down inside.
 

This crippling ugly monster beside me

Whispering in my ears always trying to spite me. Telling me embarrassing secrets that no one would know besides me.

Yet it keeps me up at night with horrifying propositions to purely frighten me.

If theres a God, why would you give me Anxiety?
 

If there is no God does anyone walk beside me?

These questions keep me up at night, see?

Because why, oh f*ck ,why is it so frightening to think about what everything might mean

I could cry to the sky and ask "God" why

But still nobody would listen,

To me.
 

So I sit alone in the early hours of every day with nobody listening and Anxiety Beside Me. Nobody here besides me. 

~Max