Take it away- Every emotion and strong-will I possess throw it out the ******* window, as you jump- wishing your insides would rot in inverse as you yell back at me to do something- but you're already falling to your death and I can't stop the car because its leading me to my future and I can't stop time because I'm not ******* god and I can't take away the hurt though I wish I ******* could. I. Can't. Do. Anything. Anymore. It's funny because these words kiss the page like an abusive uncle that kissed your mother against her will but you can't tell anyone because you're trying to keep what's left of your family together- It's ink, it's permanent and other people have experienced it to but not like you, oh **** never like you. So I take what was mine from the ******* start and hope I can turn something so tragic into this thing we like to call art, and poetry but it seems to me I need a ******* lobotomy because I don't know what to think or feel or do anymore.. All I know is that I had something once, held it close to my heart like a pistol and let everyone witness me playing russian roulette with myself as the clock strikes game over and the gun is fully loaded they watch as I pull and pull the trigger until I have nothing left until blood shed is all over the kitchen floor and you start to wonder how you're ever going to eat there again But everyone around you is watching in awe and saying "let me try". But little do they know the bloodshed is staining those tiles now and you're having trouble getting back up.... You left a bloodstain on your new t-shirt and it kind of represents your blatant disregard and my foolish naivety thinking things would turn out different. "Maybe this time, I can help" but as my face hit the floor and my memory left me I woke up in a cold sweat, shaky and hazy and I realized this time was different- I was shaken up for three days after that not knowing which house was mine to own not knowing which words I always chose- my mind blank on a page for the first time in weeks, and months and days you subconsciously shook me paralyzed with fear, I was crushed by the weight. So I come to the page that has been my pistol and put that to my chest once again but everyone thinks this is just a trend just something we all do for pretend or therapy- not me, this is somewhere between mourning and the purgatory. So take it away, I never had it anyway.
I'm touching on two separate topics in this poem so it's kind of jumpy and messy and blah.