Bring Me Back To Life

My body is a canvas and the paintbrush is a blade
My blood is the paint, my tears, a cascade
My heart is an empty box, black as night’s shade
My face is a blank picture behind a perpetual façade
My vision’s getting blurred, my eyes are bloodshot red
Kill, sing the voices in the back of my head
Numb, I can’t think, maybe I’m better off dead
So just put a goddamn bullet through my head
Has the world always been this scary?
Or is it just me? Am I going crazy?
I think I’m losing my mind, it all feels hazy
Can’t feel a thing anymore, but it’s terrifying me
I appear young but it seems I’m growing older
It’s warm outside but my skin’s getting colder
What’s this? I’m shaking. Can’t breathe, I’m suffocating
The world and it’s spite, no more, I can’t take it!
It’s getting darker, am I asleep or dead?
Is it nightfall or is it the end?
Wake me up, bring me back to life
I can’t tell anymore what it’s like to be alive

Reviews

[R.E. Ray]

Skarlet, this poem leaves the reader raw and helpless, except for the second to last line.
"Wake me up, bring me back to life," as I read it, is a sign hope lives. It's the human spirit calling out, saying "I'm still here, still fighting."

The beginning of your poem is powerful, conveys purely the pain, despair, and loneliness we often pick up in similar poems. You've done that exceptionally well here, placing the reader in the room with your subject. Still, regardless of the proximity, helplessness remains until the end.

I can't offer much on poetic form or structure because I'm not a scholar in this area, and I'm a nonconformist. So, I'll just say write what and how you feel. You can write, so just do that originally.