It's funny how people tell me I'm strong, tough
Independent
But some things make me so weak
My will breaks easily and I fall
I'm not talking about physical weakness
Nor any type of physiological frailty
My mind and heart are the problem
And sometimes I wonder
Were the tinman and scarecrow wrong?
True, there is benefit in having a heart
And yes, a mind has much to offer
But the heart remembers you
The mind aches with pain
And I'm tired of being broken
I know I can be sweet
Kindness is little problem
But does one need a heart to be kind?
Perhaps its absence would suit me better
And if I think, I think so often of the past
What could have been, what might have been
And I think(hah think) that maybe
Losing my mind wouldn't be so bad
So tell me heart, and you also mind
What is your great redeeming quality?
I'm dying to know

This canvas so pale,
is so frail and so jailed,
inside a mind that screams
and wails.

The canvas is perfect,
besides old scars,
that I choose to reopen
and enjoy the stars;

that I feel in my head
when the canvas turns red,
such a stark contrast
between living and dead.

I don't know why I can't stop slicing,
I need the rush to feel okay.
I don't know why the rush keeps climbing,
I need it more every day.

*Shining scarlet kisses...
who am I to keep them away?

I'm ****** if I do
and I'm ****** if I don't,
what I'm about to say,
well,
don't think I won't...

Don't think I won't have the strength to go on,
because it's all in your perspective.
Don't think I won't have the courage to stand strong,
in the face of all my Demons.
Don't think I won't have the Mentality to know,
when someone's trying to break me.
Don't tell me I won't have the Will to fight,
when I'm faced with life or death.

Sometimes I know
that I feel so weak,
that I think it's time to end it.
But that's because,
I live in a house,
that would love to see me quit.

I won't let them.

I fell down again today,
I thought I was done for sure.
All the pain and sadness,
dropped me straight to the floor.

I felt like a ******* brick,
made of lead,
tied to an anchor;
and someone decided
to drop me,
into a sea of misery.

I thought for sure
"I can't do this,
I can't take it anymore."

But I swear to god,
I heard your voice,
and I got up off the floor.

I swear,
you were there,
and the weight lifted once more.
I know,
you were there;
it didn't hurt anymore.

Thank you.

Depression
holds you with an iron grip;
one so unrelenting,
and so cold to the touch,
that it dulls even the warmest of feelings.

Depression
steals all joy from the moments,
you wish you could re-live,
because you never came
to fully appreciate the life you live.

Depression
tries to stop you,
from getting away,
from loving,
from smiling,
from living.

But Depression,
is not terminal,
is not unmanageable,
is not forever.

Depression
is something you can beat,
and your scars will forever be trophies;
a reminder of what you've survived.

What have I done to deserve
to lose my guiding light?
It's harder now than ever,
every day's a constant fight.

I'll never get to see you,
to thank you for all you've done.
I'll never get to meet you,
my brightly shining sun.

Your words have got me this far,
you've pushed me down this road,
and I don't feel like I've ever
owed as much as I do owe,

I owe you for your courage,
your strength to hold me tall
despite being on edge,
always about to fall.

I don't think many knew that,
you kept it in quite well.
Only once or twice it seems;
that's all you ever fell.

But in the end it's anger.
It consumes us all.
Anger is the one to blame;
the one to make you fall.

You never should have been there,
on that fateful night,
when you flew across the pavement,
flung far from your bike.

You never should have been there,
she begged you not to go.
But instead you took the low road,
but instead; you said no.

What was on your mind?
Did you know it would be your last?
Your last thoughts as a human,
and they were racing fast.

Why couldn't you slow down?
Why didn't you go home?
You were drunk and you knew it!
You didn't have to roam.

You should have stopped to think,
about your daughter and your wife.
You should have stopped to think
about your very life.

You were more than just one person,
you were an idol, proud and tall.
But you were more than just an icon;
you were a friend to all.

A friend in times of need,
in times of darkness and despair,
a friend in times of tragedy;
someone who's always there.

Now I'll never get to thank you...
but we all make mistakes.
It just ***** that we're so fragile
that one choice is all it takes.

All it takes to end a life,
whose voice reached across all Nations.
All it takes to end a life
with many dreams and aspirations.

But in the end,
there's a reminder.
Your voice; it still lives on.

In the end,
you are still with us.
You'll never be truly gone.

Because your words were filled with power;
screamed from an aching heart,
your words have changed the world,
and this is just the start.

I know it's scary,
but everything will be alright.

These words mean so much,
that you're still my guiding light.

Here we go,
take your pick:

which is worse?
to cry and not feel
or to hold back the tears?

in public?...

which is worse?
living in a house made of glass brick?
or a house armored thick?

so no one can ever see you...
or harm you
or your house...

which is worse?
being in a body you cannot stand?
or being the person you said you can't

are you your own?
or are you being held captive
perhaps by a former you

are you your own?
or have you turned on yourself
lied and said that it was to protect the rest of the world
rationalized

you are too clever
you are too violent
you are too... much,
or so they say.

yet its all on credit, an unregarded tab
and someone somewhere is keeping track

your words they twist and turn
they are vines and veins
whose blood they burn
you deconstruct meaning
transcending with every verse
it is a blessing, it is a blessing
it is a curse, it is a curse

oh but which is worse?

immediate classification no, judgmental interpretations?
descriptive deliberation of informative investigations
soon as the information is deliberately delivered
to the perception of my appreciation
artistic systemization

or

casting all this self manipulation aside in finalization
and choosing self mutilation
for the preservation of the rest of the nation
all the while, pleading through consideration

which is worse?
which is better?
to be everything is to be nothing

lack of identification.

Nerve endings ignite,
in a colossal implosion,
of never ending thoughts,
possibilities, and heartache.

Weightlessness consumes me
until the pain slowly ebbs;
but I wake up,
and hell resumes.

Why is the truth
so hard to come by?