Sometimes I just need a break.
You get what you take, you make what you make, you sit by a lake, and then let it go free.
But there’s other times too.
You cry in your bed, this depressive tone, chilling to the bone, you feel alone.
They always say “it gets better.”
They always say “Refrain from writing that letter.”
But what’s stopping me?
The system that we all believe to be there, is so transparent, that help I’ll never seek.
What about kids like me, with crippling anxiety.
We don’t speak, out of fear.
We say “We’re fine!” because that’s what everybody wants to hear!
We’re clear!
Oh welp!
I guess we don’t get to get professional help.
I have this notion, that I could channel my emotion in normal way.
But that will never happen on any day.
Because these words are the walls, of the chamber, of the gun, for the bullet that will someday be the last thing that went through my head.
But I’m still not dead...
