Torn by societal views of right and wrong
The voices that once spoke to me are nothing but a long droning sound
Schizophrenics on a city bus screaming about being kidnaped and ***** and abandoned
Mad men on the street banging on a mirror
Yelling "*******!" only to say it to themselves
And self loathing isn't specific to the mentally ill
Or maybe it is
Perhaps we're all mental
Scars of teenagers disguised with bracelets
Bruises covered in foundation
Violence and danger and pain
Self inflicted
Glass glided against gentle skin
Blood oozing out
Only to produce a temporary high on endorphins
But still
A man banging on a mirror
"I hate you" he screams
"I hate you!"
Do we all hate ourselves
And resort to different means of coping
Risky ***
8 tabs of acid
a 27 hour trip
Terrified in spirals of rainbows and skeletons
Angrily playing the piano
Producing music that may as well be spun gold
Mozart's Sonata No.12 in F Major
Perfection
Not out of willingness
Out of angriness
Self expression
Expression from pain
We stare at violent images in museums and accept them as art
Maybe they're really a cry for help
Maybe the piece is meant to say "Help me, I'm dying in my mind."
But we are too ignorant and blind and we think its imagination
And it's really reality
Prozac Nation was not made for consumption
Nor for profit
Because I can assure you that millions of people are changed by that book
And it's not like Twilight or Harry Potter
It's more
It's the honest truth
What everyone thinks they are but aren't
The poem you're reading right now
May be the cry for help I speak of
The issue however remains
A close minded society that doesn't want to accept the fact that so many of us are suffering