Has this become my life?
Writing poems that few people take their time to read
Looking at the walls, windows, and shadows hoping to see light
Waiting to have a social life again

Has this become my life?
Waiting anxiously for a friend to call or text
Knowing that I can only count them with one hand
One hand because there are restrictions set upon my life

Has this become my life?
Talking to thyself in the middle of the living room
Listening to music and thinking of what could have been
Looking at thyself in the mirror and controling the tears
Painting my face with no ocation just because I'm bored

Has this become my life?
Overthinking each past situation
Realizing every mistake with agony
Looking at the sky and screaming why

Has this become my life?
Whispering to myself that it's all gonna be okay
Meanwhile listening to others enjoying the outside
Trying to be better in a bubble
Being judged by every single present mistake or action

Has this become my life?
Being the center of attention at home
Driving to doctors here and there, there and here
Getting labs done every once in a while

Has this become my life?
My entire future lying in the hands of others
Proffessionals determining which pills I should pop
Parents restricting my social life
Listening to every opinion of what I should do with my life

Has this become my life?
Bursting into tears in my mothers arms
Accepting only professionals and mom to unburden me
Denying help from others because the anger exceeds the forgivenes

Has this become my life?
YES.

My poems are better when I'm hurting
I can connect more with people and bond through the pain
My poems are better when I'm hurting
Everything is seen through tears and lust

My poems are bad when I'm happy
I see everything in a positive way
I find no critics to say
My poems are bad when I'm happy
Usually writers connect through life experiences (the bad ones mostly)
My poems are bad when I'm happy
No one likes to read a perky girl's poem

My poems are excell when I'm fading
I see the moon and start talking about it
You see the loneliness drives me to this
My poems excell when I'm fading
I talk about lust and people suddenly recall old memories

As I lay in bed I wonder, I lust, I daydream, I love, I try, I fade
It's my little world, the escape from reality
The mere concept of it fascinates me a perfect world
Each of us design one in our heads at a point in our lives
And once we dream of it, we will continue to exalt it

Thinking, thinking, thinking, thinking
We  sometimes withold brilliant ideas, concepts, love, fear, lust
We close some doors without even noticing
And then comes the doubt of what could have been

I don't know what to write
Should I say something poetic?
Or shall I be informal during this poem?
We ask ourselves these questions often

I take the time to sit and write
Meanwhile others take the time to procrastinate, drink or smoke
Shall I gift myself a trophy or cake for doing so?
No, I am not flaunting myself
I am stating a reality

One might baffle thyself into thinking "Is writing a procrastination?"
No my friend, writing renders our thoughts to others
It is a way of venting our feelings to the world