The hospitals,
They sold our disorder
To the pharmaceutical companies.

Places that ought to look after us,
They look at our purse,
For the drugs.

I want the world to open up and swallow me.
Intense, right? But intensity runs through my veins
the kind that bleeds passion,
the kind that demands expression, not just words, but poetry,
the kind of deep that sinks to the bottom of the ocean,
where it’s dark and raw, where I belong.
I know, not everyone is ready for waters like these,

but I thrive in the depths.
It scares people off, sometimes.

****. ****.
Okay, here I am again, not holding back.
I wonder—should I shrink, soften the edges?
Should I cut the fire down?
How do I even begin to stop feeling so much?
What does it mean to feel less, to express less?
If I feel less, I say less, and if I say less, I lose pieces of myself.
I’m not willing to lose her.

So, I let myself feel.
I cry, I rage, I break,
but in those moments, I’m alive.
I stomp, I speak, I let it all out, because if I don’t,
I dishonor who I am and the very essence of this human experience.
I would rather break a thousand times,
hurt again and again,
than let this world turn me bitter

Three dinner mats are placed,
Carefully laid, evenly spaced.

A candle lit warmly,
The ironic sense of home in a way.

Cutlery shining, stating its place,
Though one seems to have been erased.

They're four people,
In this place called home.

The candle was not lit for me,
Bright, present but unknown.

Yet you say its best to leave me alone,
For i am damaged, very unknown.

So I linger, as they're three dinner mats instead of four,

Maybe in another life you will notice me some more.