I was 7 years old when schizophrenia sat on my head.

I was 7 years old when life seemed boring and I was interested in the dead.


I was just 7.


Since then there are always eyes staring at me.

Not 4 or 5 but eyes that are more than a dozen.

Eyes that I fail to distinguish are real or surreal

Eyes that look at me with disgrace,

Eyes that mock me behind their straight face.


They mock me because I complain of snakes in my stomach and poison in my food.

They mock me because to them I am damaged goods or something crude.

The monsters in my head may not be true,

But mental illness is, it isn’t a taboo.


Its all “people come in all shapes, sizes and forms”

But when they see me they can’t go beyond the norms.

Bugs crawl over and under my skin,

The monsters inside me compelling me to commit gruesome sins.


How isn’t my illness true if

I can’t distinguish black from white,

Wrong from right, narrow from wide.

Was it blur or was it clear,

did he leave or is he still here?

Is this real or just my fear?

Am I asleep or am I awake?

Is this a disease or just a headache?

Are those people here or is it all just fake?

Am I in a cage or am I free?

Did he choose her or did he choose me?

Did I jump off a cliff or drowned in a sea?

Because I can’t be alive, this can’t be me.

I was better than this and you know that

There were things other than my hallucinations on which I was better at.

But now I roam alone,

Because no one wants to be with the girl

Who talks to the spirits unknown.

But what option did they leave me with when I was rejected by those in flesh and bone.

So I just walk around naked covered in nothing but my disease,

Which by the way the way the society doesn’t recognise

So, I am nothing but a freak.



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