Maybe I like it.
Maybe I like being considered crazy, a freak, or insane.
Maybe I like listening to the different voices in my head.
Maybe I like this feeling of loneliness.
Maybe I like seeing my blood run off my flesh and drip to the floor.
I never said I wanted help.
No, I didn't like the help.
I mean who said it was a bad thing after all?
The normal people?
Maybe if they felt what I feel,
Seen what I see,
Maybe they would enjoy it too.
Or maybe I'm just crazy enough to enjoy all this pain.
YOU ARE READING
Final Writings
PoetryThis is just a place where I'm gonna let out my feelings. I warn you. It's not pretty. Triggering
