Depression, I guess, is a choice
But I guess that it's the prisoner's fault to rot behind bars.
I guess it's the 13-year-old girl's fault that she got viciously degraded by a man and still washes herself at 28, knowing she'll never feel clean again.
I guess it's the child's fault that he goes to bed crying every night because mommy is gone and daddy has taken his pain out on the only part of her left.
I guess it's the soldier's fault that he had to sit there while he watched life after life slowly slip away like ashes in the wind.
I guess it's the mother's fault that her child was born without a father
I guess it's the kid's fault that he was born in his own skin
I guess It is a choice
That we tear each other down till there is nothing left but the dust of insecurity and the ashes of despair
I guess it's a choice that we judge from no experience, saying that attention is the only goal.
When the only goal is to feel happy again.
I guess it's a choice.
That every time I lay down after an exhausting day of picking up the torn and ruined pieces of my mind, I cry.
I don't cry because of the pain in my mind, grinding what is left of my sanity to a pulp.
I cry because No one cares
I guess it's a choice
No one cares... until it's my bones on the floor of death with a rope around my neck as a sign screaming out that I'm emotionally unbalanced
Till my arms are filled up with scars and tears of joy when I bleed out all that I'm worth...
I guess it's a choice
That I am put before you
Like an object to be judged and priced
That my inner demons have conquered my angels and have stuffed them into the tiny cage in the back of my mind
While my mind is screaming out that I am human
Though I don't feel like it
The thoughts, scars, and tears have burned me so much I have to put a mask on before I leave the house.
That I have to make an excuse why I couldn't make it because of the simple fact that my arms burn with the ache of a blade.
That my brain is misunderstood in more ways than one.
That my life means no more than a grain of sand in the bottom of life's shoe, slowly washing away in the river of unjust and pain.
I guess it's my choice...
To live without a grain of happiness in a bowl of despair.
To always be on land but feel like drowning in a pool of misguided feelings and hopeless rage.
But I guess
This is my choice.
I guess I'm the prison to my own mind
I guess that I have locked the doors to my heart and have thrown the keys so far, that I can no longer see it.
I guess I have given up the river of hope to the ocean of self-harm and suicide.
It's not my choice, but the world's standards, abusers, and ignorance.
I didn’t have a choice.
This is about all the things people say are a choice or the things labeled as being your fault.