Listen up,
Listen all.
All you bitches,
That caused my scars.
I finally got all the results.
To the damage you've done.
Twelve thousand dollars,
And counting on.
Photosensitive is what they call.
The epilepsy that sets me off.
So your jokes have now,
Turned to scars,
Fuck you all
And your cold hearts.
Therapeutic help.
Because of suicide attempts.
But where were you?
When you said we were friends?
The last thing you saw,
Was me getting sick.
An overdose.
On my prescription pills.
But I'm still here,
I shouldn't strive.
But a girl tries.
Ive learned I'm unbreakable.
Immortal for a while.
So find a new goal bitch.
Because the diagnosis states,
That I'm alive.
YOU ARE READING
My war.
PoetryI have been diagnosed, ripped apart, shot down, kicked around. But ill be on broadway. Even if i have to buy a street, name it broadway and perform. In all seriousness, instead of sleeping forever, i wrote out my war.
