I don’t know what I’m waiting for, is there anything they can do?

Tormented by my thoughts, and all because of …

I don’t want to keep going over it, but my brain can’t seem to stop

Thoughts of doing stupid things, for every minute of the clock.

I’m not that bad a person, or even bad at all.

But I feel like less than human and you blame me for it all.

But I don’t want to keep going over it. My brain can’t seem to stop.

Maybe this is my only option, to make my brain switch off.

Rope, knife, bridge, bus? All are solid picks.

To be rid of me and all my thoughts, I’m just a useless prick.

They’re all real simple options, a quick and easy list.

Now I don’t have to talk about it… my brain has fin…

Karl

This poem is a snapshot of what it feels like to be mentally overwhelmed — caught in a cycle of pain, self-doubt, and emotional exhaustion. It was written in a hospital waiting room, during one of the lowest moments of my life, as I was seeking help for thoughts I couldn’t escape. It captures a moment of deep internal crisis, where intrusive thoughts spiral, and the brain refuses to let go of the trauma it’s been drowning in.

The repetition of “I don’t want to keep going over it, but my brain can’t seem to stop” reflects the obsessive, looping nature of heartbreak and betrayal. It highlights the helplessness of knowing a thought pattern is hurting you, but feeling powerless to break free from it — especially after being lied to, blamed, and left emotionally adrift by someone you loved and trusted.

Midway, the poem turns. Suicidal ideation surfaces — not dramatically, but honestly. “Rope, knife, bridge, bus…” These lines aren’t about theatrics. They’re the voice of a mind in distress, desperately looking for a way to make the pain stop. The list is jarringly casual — because when you’re in that place, the options start to feel scarily simple.

But then comes the most important line:

“I’m not that bad a person, or even bad at all.”

That’s the heart of the conflict. The speaker knows, deep down, they aren’t a monster. They didn’t deserve this. And yet they’ve been made to feel worthless, dehumanised — like the villain in someone else’s story. It’s the emotional wreckage left behind after gaslighting, betrayal, and the collapse of a relationship built on uneven ground.

The Ending — “fin”

The poem ends with a line that cuts off mid-word:

“Now I don’t have to talk about it… my brain has fin…”

At first glance, it seems to trail off — like it’s about to say “finished.” But it’s also the French word “fin”, meaning “the end.”

Why This Poem Matters

This isn’t a suicide note.
It’s a release.
A survival mechanism.

It’s what happens when someone in crisis chooses to put their pain into words rather than let it fester in silence.

It doesn’t ask for pity. It asks for understanding.

It exists to shine a light on a place most people are too afraid to talk about — that quiet war in the mind where despair feels louder than hope. And by sharing it, I’m saying: If you’ve ever been there, you’re not alone. There is help. There is healing. There is a future.

This poem was written on the edge, but it wasn’t the end.
It was the beginning of getting help.