Is writing a gift,
Or is it a curse?
I could be a doctor, a lawyer, a nurse,
But i chose to be a disgrace instead.

I sit in my room, writing nonsense
That no one's ever gonna read.
Random words, without any context
Among other plants, a simple ****

A normal person sees this as a waste of time,
Takes away my notebook
Little did they know, it was the only thing keeping my sanity intact.

Sitting in the dark dark room,
in the corner of my mind,
in the corner of the room where the shadows loom.

The rivers of salty water flow down the river styx that guides me thru the end.
The boat is floating and flowing with screams of the unfortunate and unforgiving as the death rows thru the gates of the end.
But the end is never truly the end.

Shadow people twist their dark grins in forms that hurts,
the death is hanging over my shoulder whispering,
urging me to torment my broken mind until it falls and becomes theirs.

Theirs, theirs like a thing or a toy or like a match that isn’t destroyed.

From dust we come to dust we go, what’s the point of life, if we must die?

I could almost look normal
If every 5-20 minutes
I go to the bathroom to
Cry
Breathe
And take a break