My thoughts are always going.
They show no sign of slowing.
They crowd around me.
They don't plan on letting me go free.
They need some sort of payment.
I pay with my own solitary confinement.
I'm locked away.
So here I have to stay.
Locked in my room every day.
My thoughts say that if I go out.
There will be no doubt.
That I will regret this breakout.
My thoughts make sure I know that this is a crime.
I decide to go, just this one time.
My thoughts won't let me speak.
I manage to get out a squeak.
And to my thoughts' delight.
It seems my thoughts were right.

Put your troubles into something else.
Don't use that razor blade again.
Or the blunt scalpel you keep.
Or even that bent kitchen knife.

Put your troubles  into something else.
Leave the eyeliner on the shelf.
Leave the rubbers in the box.
Leave the earrings on the stand.

Put your troubles into something else.
How about the doodles you draw.
Or the stories that flow from your pen.
Even the paintings done at dawn.

Put your troubles into something else.
Maybe, even, me. I won't look at them.
I will gently untangle every one.
Trim them until they are all gone.

Put your troubles into something else.
Not a sealed chest.
Not a closed box.
Not a corked bottle.

Put your troubles into something else.
Let your mind be free.
Let your heart be free.
Let me be free.

I could lock myself in my room.
Surrounded by my belongings,
By the mirrors that have seen my secrets.
I could cry and bleed for days without anyone asking why.
I could drink and smoke without suffering the consequences.
One lock to one room shielding me from the outside world.
Shielding me from the invisible flames of everyday life.
I could walk on my self-made clouds of smoke,
Streaming through my lungs and out of my mouth.
Filling my head with OK thoughts followed by whiskey,
Drowning her sorrows,
They say with an attitude.
Finding a place between realities standards and being ****** up.
I reply.
Attention *****.
Pain ******.
Stoner.
Happiness-seeker.
Drama queen. Depressed.
Sad.
Suicidal.
Dead.