Hopeless

In the depths of my desperation, I scream for help. No one hears but this little voice inside my head. But it does nothing to help my cries. It does nothing but whisper tiny words of doubt, slowly seeping into my tarnished armor. It feeds on my frustrations. It gnaws at my depression. It devours my confidence and spits out hundreds of haunting figures—fragments of my old self turned into mosaics of pretense. That little voice feeds on the dark secrets that drown me to insanity. It grows louder than my fears—keeping me awake in the middle of the night, trapping me inside my own mind.