I exist better in the words on my screen,
Than I do in the lines in between – the blinks and smiles;
Better than the skips, frolics, and marches through the aisles.
My brain moves faster than my body;
So words and thoughts come out of my mouth … wrongly?
I can’t keep up enough to filter what I think,
So when I mess up, I get nervous; suddenly I need a drink.
Suffocating on my own mistakes;
Wondering which one of you hates me today.
“What more can I do, what more can I say?
Did I really fuck up in that way?”
These are the questions I silently ask myself;
“Am I so fucking pathetic that I need help?”
Writing poems, writing stories – the only medicine I can trust.
Because I’m actually so nervous and upset that I don’t give a fuck.
Let me die – even if it is by my own hand.
I’d rather die than actually make a stand against my own issues.
Take some pills, swig a few drinks;
Cut up my wrists just for a chance to think…
“Why does it bother you? Why do you care?
Why do you fucking worry when somebody stares?
Why do you think everything is wrong?
And why do you like that song?
Do you keep secrets from yourself?”
And let’s revisit one particular question –
“Are you so fucking pathetic that you need help?”
In those moments I can’t speak because I’m bleeding out.
So hear me out; know me now – like you never could before…
I exist better in the words on my screen.
And I suffocate on my own mistakes like you can’t possibly believe.
I know none of you hate me today.
But all the medication in the world can’t stop me from being this way.