How many of you would like to know me?
Because I'm an open book, and that has been said to be a crime.
But I can sit here and tell you about my life thus far, from a to z, all of the things that have haunted me.
A product of divorce.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Trauma consumes me.
And all I can do is just keep breathing.
Most days I'm thankful to do just that.
To open my eyes.
To realize.
And acknowledge the beauty in all things.
Drugs started me on falling in love with dead trees.
Getting on my knees and begging,
Please.
Please.
Don't think the words you speak about me.
17 to 26.
Packing concrete into a broken foundation, just for a quick fix.
Drunken mistakes.
Violent shakes.
Unpulled triggers.
All causing me to grow bigger.
Inside.
Inside.
Most times, always pondering why?
Most times wanting to ******* die.
Being willing canceled out the unwilling.
Times you search for deeper healing.
Deeper meaning.
Deeper ******* feeling.
And in the end, all you ever have is yourself.
You alone have to be good enough.
3 am thoughts.
Coping mechanisms can surely be taught.
But they don't ******* work.
Because I'm always left distraught.
What else have I to cover?
When I was a child, I used to hover.
Witnessing shadows beneath the covers.
And dead bodies really do get stiff and cold.
Never enough for anyone to just hold.
Binges of binges.
Lies untold.
Just trying to find another old soul.
Lies untold.
Solice in silence.
Two years a prisoner.
Suicide attempts,
And hospital beds.
Copious amounts of pills.
Provoking a complex
Of conformity.
Breaking free.
**** normality.
Opening eyes
But what do I see?
Is all of this really me?
It's not.
My depths go deeper than these words.
I soar higher than birds.
And you'll never really ******* know me.