People ask me if I okay I lie and say yes, everything is fine I'm crying inside, begging for help Praying that someone will rescue me From the hole I dug and crawled into
I don't write well I write crookedly and disjointedly and my words do not always make sense to any but me but I write and the pain in me spills and becomes something real some constructive and unlike that terrible reality of blood in the bathtub I create I create I create I don't write well but I am writing something at least.