I lay there after surviving something I thought would **** me,
I’m burrowed deep into my own thoughts and every question I was asked seemed so personal,
I don’t want to be here, why is my soul worth saving?
I even laid there, numb while I was on a drip due to dehydration,
I even laid there numb, while my family cried,
I even laid there numb while the pills were slowly dissolving, shutting down my mind and organs,
Something I had hoped for,

For such a long time.

Why me, why did I survive?
I spent 8 ******* days and 7 ******* nights, surrounded by 4 white walls,
Every colour was so bright, almost as if it was proving to me that I, in fact did not have any light or colour in my life,
While the sombre walls couldn't of been any more empty,
My mind aimlessly wondered through the small crevasses in life, trying to find at least something worth living for,
I even laid in silence, the only time I made a sound,
Was when I was masked with a drug to put me out,
Something that I couldn't have been anymore ecstatic about, while I was being cut open,
Something that happened often, but without gas to numb the pain.

I didn't need numbing.

I woke up from surgery, in more pain than I endured,
Again I was surrounded by 4 white walls,
I shot up from my bed, to then be restrained back and injected with morphine,
I didn't understand why I needed so much numbing,
Couldn't they see?

The layers of my skin were so worn and torn, I couldn't feel a thing!
My heart was so broken and detriment I couldn't feel a thing!
My eyes were so tired, I couldn't see, I couldn't feel a thing!
My lungs were so bruised, I couldn't breathe, I couldn't feel a thing!

It was my last day, I was finally leaving,
I could finally feel something,
But all I could think about now,
Was morphine.

But you are a galaxy
I am merely the moon
orbiting your existence
in an attempt to brighten your surroundings
and nervously contribute to the art that you are

if you are rain
I am a cloud
made up of tiny parts of you

my existence obtaining no other purpose
other than consisting solely of you
growing inside of me
to display you to the world as you proudly pour out of me

if you are a book
I am the blurb
a review
a quote of redcommendation
boasting your brilliance
gleaming with pride
whilst simply being overlooked with no credit

but

if I were a galaxy
you would be the higher power that created me

and if I were a cloud
you would be the sun
as you become present
I would merely disappear behind your greatness
making my grey hue succumb into melting into your light
until I am no longer what I was to begin with

and if I were a book
you would be the author
personally scribing sentences into the pages of my mind
hand carving each word carelessly
without any idea just how important the story that will be created,
as a result of your actions, will be

and you continue to scratch away
not caring about wearing down the fabric of who I am
because I am only pine
and you are mahogany

There's something magical about the night time
and the way in which the roads clear
in the same way that your mind does

you'd think that would make things easier;
that the complete eery silence would bring peace of mind
with no one else awake to witness the movement
- or seemingly lack of -
on the earth
making you feel special, significant; as though this planet was designed and created especially with you in mind
and you are the only habitant

as though you share a secret with the universe,
an inside joke with the moon
and a bond with the stars

but that's what makes your harrowing thoughts all that much louder

there's no busy bustle of shoppers in a rush to waste their money
on materialistic items
that will decompose  upon the arrival of their death
as quickly as their corpses will
or employees hurrying in order to attend a 9-5 shift that they despise
in order to attain the funds to purchase said items

no businesses or traders
just the constellations in the sky and shrubbery rooted deeply
growing within the cracks of the paving
as though it's natures way of communicating via the universe
gloating, "ha! man can't take everything from me!"

I'm re writing and re reading all the pages I have ever seen,
It's like I'm addicted to this, addicted to the pain and emotions that people once had,
I long for this feeling, to leave me,
The suicidal tendencies that I'm bordering,
The stories that iv been obsessed with,
Iv bookmarked all the pages I'll read a thousand times
Until one day, I won't read them at all,
Until one day, everything I feared, lost, remembered and hoped for all disappeared,

Depression is rehab, making me recover from the happiness I once had,
It's consuming me and slowly shutting down every cell in my brain,
This darkness is diligent to take away all my life expectations,
My glass soul is being poured and filled, infected and consumed, by everything I hate,
It's overfilling with dull complexions, making my life wretched,
Until it shatters, I carry on gently through life, fearing at any moment, i'll break,
How can the sun be shining then without notice the rain pours subordinately over the top, bringing it's thunders and storms to block out every sound, to make everything motionless and numb.

The gleaming headlight reflecting off the surface of my shining eyes,
The roads seems so empty tonight but roads are cemented with cars,
Everyone has a place to be, people to see, a routine to endure,
But no time for life itself,
Im standing here in the dark, something I'm highly afraid of,
Yet so relaxed to see a second of light shine past me,
The headlight giving me something to strive for,
Of course like everything, it lasts for a second,
Then I'm stood here again waiting for a spark

I see nothing but a man, screaming to be realised and untied, forcefully breaking through for air. I see nothing but a women, slowly fading away, Into the shadows, in which will always follow me, haunt me to remind me of what I once was,

I have torn away at my outer shell, to make my identity, somewhat translucent,
I am a stranger to my skin, the stranger that has been suffocating me for 16 ******* years,

Have I been born yet? Or am I still a book ready to be written, full of ideas and journeys, full of life, yet neglected like an ancient undiscovered history book,

Like those captured animals I've been locked away my whole life,
I've been tortured by my own mind,
Poisoned by the minds around me, a daughter, a bride, a mother, they're all just society's illusions,

I'm still a walking Skeleton with just bone and no identification,
I'm an escape artist, i'll cut my way out of this skin until I bleed myself dry,
So just bury me after I'm dead, so I can leave that life behind, leave my dresses and skirts at the grave,

When water spills, the only path it takes is the one that flows easiest,
But the path I have chosen is cemented, I have reached an impasse, with no direction, I need a river to keep me from disposition
I need to be free, I want to exist.