I’m testing my mental because I know once I’m caught up with someone or something I’ll lose it. It took time for me to be here, to speak out about my ****** up life. Took a lot of withdrawals and telling myself I’ll talk about it only for me to cower away. Oh but I love infatuation, it keeps me going. Like how I was infatuated by the way writing remedied wounds I couldn’t possibly fathom. Those pages were what I spilled my secrets to, I smeared my blood on every page to remind myself that everything beautiful has a consequence. But the pain had toned down and creativity found a new abode. Just like the word indecisive implies I still can’t make a decision on what to write about. I’d like to call it indecisive insanity cause I still can’t figure out what’s wrong with me. I had journals filled to the brim with criticism but by 16 I had confined in those four walls in my mind that said I’m not worthy enough . Writing became a short lived passion, I can feel the words ricochet off the walls in my mind. I start perspiring all of my rhymes. Sometimes you just hope and dream that they’ll see the light you’ve secretly placed into those poems  the endless stalking of dictionaries and finding out new strands of knowledge distracts me from myself. It dresses my bare mind I just hope that no man will come and undresses my mentality.