They call it BPD
A illness that shapes me,
Its the “I don’t fit in” disorder,
The “Your the one who’s out of order.”
Come to terms I now can admit,
How hard I felt each near hit.
Always one with the conflict,
feelings of A counterfeit.
There turns A time of no cease,
absence of light is unleashed,
out of the blue from the inside,
this empty form and crowded mind.
A Diagnosis is in
The cerebrums burnt like third degree skin,
Its now over sensitive to everything.
The cause of the burns,
Is internal fires,
that incinerated mental wires.
Did I change who I am,
for A world i saw to be A sham,
attempting to form A personality,
I try them on to see what fits me.
You'll see Im not afraid to be alone,
yet again not all on my own.
To see the good in everyone
until reminded that Im wrong,
proving myself right all along.
If everything is all black and white,
Right or wrong,
where do I look to belong,
In a world that teaches all that’s wrong.
It’s the same solitary single fight,
To look for ways to grow from plight.
Within knowledge and words,
maybe it’s time to find,
this true from for the first time.
Habits become traits.