I cannot keep this
This fruitless ache
This pounding in my head
There go my blades
At their works
Bloody arts!
Sign the dotted line in blood
Your blood!
We try to bleed it out!
each droplet an hour of agonies
crimson muck
We cried but in vain
This depressive, this manic
This open raw wound
to which everyone spits in
For tis that which they doth not see
Oh so blind to!
Therapies, forsooth! a worthless pastime
Clonazepam, Quetiapine
Dampen the mood, quieten the voices
A mind torn asunder
for of winter snow
and summer thunder
a body I do plunder
to rip out these demons
exorcise these ghouls
claw out these ghosts
This cannot be glorified
it is not beautifully broken
but tearing oneself apart
to remove the ashes in my head
Borderline personality disorder
Post traumatic stress disorder...