Psychotic is making me grown to an idea,
A new way of living,
A way of living without the pain that engraves itself into my skin.
You rip away pages as if they never existed,
As if the publishers blood wouldn't be boiling with anger,
Or the fans wouldn't be heartbroken.
Psychotic is not feeding into love,
Love that was promised to stand strong,
Even through hellacious storms,
Love that was promised to stay,
Promised to not drift away like a petal on a lonely flower in fall,
Or like Ash after a fire.
Psychotic is saying all those things,
But saying how 'tight' some other girl is while being in another one.
Or texting and flirting with a girl for years while I slept next to you.
If anyone is psychotic,
I promise, it is not me.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry for the Broken and Confused
PoetryIf you're like me you crave knowing you're not alone. This book is to help prove that you're not. Someone out there understands, and gets how you feel, I'm here to shine a light on those who are broke and confused. Enjoy.
