When I think about me I want to cry.
So many medicines, just to get by.
The pharmacist, he was taken aback,
by the number of drugs inside the sack.
Anxiety, depression, and cutting,
the bag he gave me had trouble shutting.
Off to the therapist I go each week.
I don’t even know what it is I seek.
The one thing I can’t do is simply be.
No, it seems that’s not in the cards for me.
I try to write until I don’t feel pain,
inside of my crazy and messed up brain.
So many drugs and it’s still not enough,
I try to put up a front that is tough.
Yet I fear that anyone can see through,
so for control, I spill my guts to you.
I used to believe that I was lazy,
and then somehow, I made myself crazy.
Obsessed with my blood, as it oozed dark red,
it felt better than what was in my head.
Now I take pills, use therapy, and write.
The same old battle, but new every night.