I guess you could call it poetic how by the age of 12 I had no recollection of what happiness tasted like on my tongue. Some would say it was tragically beautiful.
But it was not poetic, nor was it beautiful,  but it was tragic. It was so very, very sad, and that sadness is only doubled now that people see sorrow as glorious.  It is not glorious. It is not strength. It is a lump of iron in your chest and stomach and it eats you from the inside, out and you have no right to think that blood stained wrists are anything other than tragic. So very,  very tragic.

I'm not happy
I can tell you that much
But I'm not quite sad
I'm stuck in between
I don't know how
And I don't know why
I'm lost in the great abyss of my very own mind
I just want some sort of place
To lay my head and rest
From all the troubling thoughts
That haunt me every second
Every minute
Every hour
Every day
I try and I try and I try
But I don't think I'll ever find my place of comfort
If only, if only
I could rest a spell
And try to figure out
This puzzle which is my own head