My mental health makes me and breaks me.
I’m unique and different and quirky and so very dead inside.

I sold her a bag of dreams
It had a hole at the bottom
She gave me winter and spring
Summer and most of her Autumn
I left her not looking back
Standing there
Clutching tightly
An earful of sorry stories
And a bottle of Bacardi

Unless it is chronic,
Inflammation does not last.
Be humble.