There’s no heart left to break
There’s no home for the bank to take
There’s no food but scraps that I ate
I lost my rights the American way

Corners cut, I avoid main streets
can’t believe in your deity
Life is hard as the cold concrete
Where I rest my head to fall asleep

I had a life I had a love
I had a family but now they’re gone
There's no one left who knew me then
Only dream scenes that see
Right through to the death of me

You put me down you call me ***
But I was just passing life from
Childhood to the end of this bad one

His mind is all clogged up with excruciating thoughts,
and as he screams in agony, he knows no one could hear.
For those who did, they are what you call demons.
Those demons that stayed in him, and those that lingers around him.

He's lost and he's trapped in his own dark world, and no one is there to help.

I haven't seen my therapists in months
& everyone assumes that's a good thing.

I seem happier
& everyone thinks that I'm getting better.

I'm writing again
& everyone says writing is a healer.

They forget that therapists & medicine is for those who can still be helped. That being content is one of the final steps in ending your life.

My poetry is my suicide note and I'm writing again.

I crave a different state of mind,
Make me more honest, make me connect with people make me more open, smart and kind.

I don't crave the come down,
Make me feel tired, make me sleep but have bad dreams, make me feel distant, make my body ache and head pound.

So when the money comes around like it always does I'm constantly torn between up and down, a battle of is, isn't and was.