Do they see the insanity
hidden in my eyes?
Does instability consume their brain
the way it does mine?
I won't put the gun in my mouth,
I don't care how a bullet might taste.
I'd put it to my head,
that's where the problems play.
I can't pull the knife across my wrists,
I'd become enamored by the red.
I won't plunge the blade into my chest,
my heart is my son's, always his.
But I need to escape.
I can't continue just to exist,
detached but for moments.
There's no drug capable of healing
this.
