Real

I have nothing more left to say.
I've stated all my pain, I've told them
All about it. They reply with lovely words of kindness.
But not to help make my mind be at peace.
They all thought it was simply poetry.
Nothing more. I tried to tell them,
That I was struggling and bleeding.
Everyone thought I was okay, and I
Was only writing to keep them happy.
I am now out of words to say. I'm out of
Ways to beg for help. I can't think of anymore.
I've already run out. They all loved my poetry,
Written in blood, written from the shadows of my mind.
They enjoyed it, thinking it was just my creative dark
Mind raving madly yet again. They followed my
Pain, believing everything is great for me.
But no. None of them knew, that it was all real.