What is my life without my pain?
What is it that I bring to the table
to talk about if my life isn’t unstable?
Am I able to say anything interesting
if it doesn’t carry the sting of my suffering?
I want to say I’m especially sad
to be able to say I’m especially bad
for the things I think, say and do,
since I threw away the idea that I was good at anything a long time ago.
And yeah, I know, some say I’m amazing
because they can’t draw, write, or sing
Like I ironically love to show that I can
until I can’t bring myself to anymore because
of everyone else that is far more adored for those things than I could ever hope to be.
I tend to go back there, by the way.
I tend to compare myself to those art wizards and rock gods
and weigh my worth against the odds that I could ever do the things they can
And it feels twisted that I can’t stand it
When I see my friends do it.
Forget them, I say, they aren’t you and your work isn’t worth how much it looks like theirs,
And art isn’t made to make people care about you
IT ISN’T MADE TO MAKE PEOPLE CARE ABOUT YOU!
...but why can I nearly scream that at you,
when that feels the furthest from true to me?
I make my drawings sometimes into lifelines,
hoping someone will see past the picture long enough to refute the words “I’m fine,”
thinking someone might reach in and save me
Why does it pain me so much to stop pretending
To stop being the artist or musician I’m “supposed” to be
Long enough to let myself speak honestly
That I don’t need to spin rhymes to say I feel like I’m dying
I don’t need to... right?
Can I just say plainly that I’ve lost this fight and need help standing up again,
Can I believe it isn’t a sin to be broken
and choose not to leave the hurt unspoken;
Can I stop choking on my self-hatred,
excusing my silent dishonesty by saying “I made the mess and I have to face it,
alone...”
I know my depression was born from lonely nights at home,
trying to make my own way to escape the pain and find my own version of safety
neglecting how insane the attempts to escape this life made me
pretending away the hole in my soul gave me nothing
and none of my escapes made me feel okay,
they were just bricks for the walls of the prison where I stayed
away from all my family that never knew I felt this way
and to be honest I didn’t realize how bad it was either
to be my own judge, jury, and executioner,
to throw myself in jail every single time I failed
never letting anyone pay to bail me out
But Jesus never asked for my permission.