Should I be concerned about the state I'm in?
I'm not sure how bad it is,
honestly
I can't tell because
what used to be bad days are good days now
and I guess that's what people mean when they say
you'll learn how to live with it.
I think you just become one with your demons
and soon you're saying things you never thought you would
like maybe happiness isn't all everyone says it is,
maybe weakness is a kind of strength,
maybe I just won't get better and that'll be okay because
recovery
is a marathon, not a sprint
but some days I can't even bring myself to get out of bed
so that trek seems impossible.
I am getting used to the emptiness;
I hardly think about it now,
and by that I mean I always think about it so
it doesn't seem like a big deal anymore
and these days crying is a nonevent,
my eyes are bloodshot more often than they are clear,
and my friends have stopped asking how I'm doing.
I guess I seem pretty stable and
I guess that's accurate,
I'm pretty regularly in a state of numbness
manifesting itself in
tequila and
the word okay and
art that people choose not to see the underlying meaning in.
I have written a suicide note every day for the past six months
but I call it poetry
and that somehow makes it okay to say these things-
by putting my turmoil into stanzas
it becomes a metaphor rather than a cry for help and
nobody will take this one seriously, either,
nobody seems to be concerned about the state I'm in.
I am learning to live with it.

Innocence follows her, but inside she's wild,
She thinks of things that shouldn't be thought.
Her mind plays tricks while her heart ceases desire,
A fiction of its own, a lesson never taught.
And as she lays in bed at night, her eyes never truly close,
Seeing the colors in silhouette form, the painful memory shows.
The pitter-patter of a heart, beaten and broken yet fixed,
The silent screams in the dark, yet not a sound, transfixed.
A rage trapped beneath her light, she refuses to become what she hates,
The river that flows within her veins, a poison left to manipulate.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, she sings the melody again,
Paper bags and plastic hearts, a tune for only the insane.
"Each one has a color" she points to them all "some light and some dark"
"But those colors change in life when that person changes their mark."

We just kept getting worse and nothing really helped.
Maybe, just maybe we were meant to be like this,
Depressed, alone and ready to die.