But when is too late?

I can feel myself

sliding away.

I try to speak.

I try to let the words

spill, but I

clam up.

My vocal chords

freeze, and

nothing comes out.

I gape and gasp like a

frog,

but all of me

chokes up.

My throat tingles,

my tongue goes to the back of my

mouth.

My mind is turning

against me.

I think strange thoughts.

What would happen if I

took this pen and

shoved it down my

throat?

If I drank all my

pills?

If I curled up in a corner and mumbled

insanities

to myself-

nonstop?

I want to

kick and scream,

flail around on the ground and

give myself rugburns

Slam into things and bruise.

Take a razor to my

legs, arms

I've done it before.

I have scars.

Scars of insanity.

But am I really

insane?

Would they really help me at a

loony bin?

I think not.

I'm not even insane,

though.

I'm just a

stupid,

naive,

hopeless

hormonal teenager.

And besides,

I may be too far gone into my

withdrawal.

It's too late.

I can't go back to the way I was

before,

when I was

happier.

It's all too late.

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But when is too late? - Hello Poetry