Living this way is deceptive. Manipulative. Conspicuous.
I'm sorry, I wasn't told that in the presence of your joyful banner I'm supposed to cover up my wrists.
These fleeced sweaters can only hide the personified meaning of this twisted afterlife I call life.
When the voices in my head have mono-toned echoes and I'm supposed to put them on mute, like I have a choice. When the demons inside have now bellowed.
Every 1 in 12 people are found with these similar, oh what's it called? Issue?
'You need the attention. You need to be seen.'
When each word is like you just handing us a towel for a blood or a tissue.
For our tears.
Drowning down each pill with a bottle of beer. Hoping to get so intoxicated with the elixir of oblivion that my diagnosis wont drive me over the pavilion.
ProZac, Symbax, all of the one faced, color accented capsules to keep me bound in the bar caged planes of the mind that I'm trying to escape.
With the possibilities that these same pills could be the one thing that could be killing me.
With the same side effects that I'm bound to in the first place.
My mind is a kingdom. My body is a temple
The voices is in my temple are citizens who are living in the whirlwind, with my screams to feed.
Each voice debating how they will overthrow their queen
Those who couldn't bare to stare at their reflection, just the tainted picture of the angel I thought I was to be is enough to drive me into a coffin open hole.
When the only time they glance at themselves and when they're hunched over in a toilet bowl.
They say the scarring of my skin is called mutilation, when the only mutilation is the manipulation these men in white cloaks with a liscensed expertised in vein
supposed to be my examiner that I call my doctor tries to label me with a dogtag I call my pain
In focused on the blue vein
They say this Enflamed feeling I have is Vengence and guilt.
And categorize me with the people they drugged, starting at the age of 12 starting with a pill.
20 year olds are writing their wills.
When there's more suicides then homocides.
Do you know what you they really must feel.
Society is enough to breathe it down their back.
Whether if I have thick thighs or a thigh gap.
All these papers tell me is that I'm sick and if I'm triggered,
No one is supposed to talk to me and ask what's wrong.
They throw it back in my face.
And tell me I need a pill just to remain strong.
When the only papers I need to read is the one with the cross.
When my Doctor felt the same pain, or has society forgot.
That this blood that shed, is not jut from the twisted lips of the walking demons.
But when nails of SIN was lodged in my Gods hands for a reason.
Just when I think life hate me so much it keeps me breathing.
When my God loves me so much, I stayed because his love is never leaving.
1 and every 12 people are found with demons of pain.
I am strong
I'm a warrior
I'm a solider with the armor I built myself in times of isolation
And to the 1 in 12 people who have succeeded this memoir is a dedication.
Your pill is only a chain that's attached to the weight of the simplicity that your depression is advanced to a brutalized face of you.
Your pain is not apart of you, it's attached to you.
Your royalty overthrows the citizens in your brain.
Sit in your throne and make the demons inside you bow down to your pain.
Know it so, inside you can say I can do it.
There is nothing wrong with you
You're just human
