"When the going gets tough, the tough get going" they said.
Well that's not true, cause some left even before the going got tough, and took a different path from the thorn-filled one I limpingly led.

"Never look a gift horse in the mouth" they admonished.
This, was also a false tale. I only realised the mistake,
when I lay on the ground, reeling from its kick, alone and astonished.

Because, you see, as I was trying to explain to 'them' by shouting myself hoarse,
there is such a thing as a Trojan horse.

A cat has nine lives is something we all know,
but the number of lives a reader lives increases each time they curl up with a book and a cappuccino.

From containing the recipe to feeding your stomach with drink or grain
to containing wonders to feed your brain,
to telling you how to drive a train,
or teaching you how to avoid strain,
a book is a well of knowledge which from many things you gain.

So the next time you dream of having the wonders of the world unfurled,
you can do do it with your eyes wide open, sitting on your armchair - with a book in hand - legs curled.

Those distant leaden cirrus clouds
Do not resemble your wild curls anymore
That midnight smell of vanilla and lavender in my backyard
Does not make me want to drive up to your house and nestle between the freshly showered perfumed folds of your skin like before
The ocean no longer reminds me of your eyes
And I've become careful enough to resist myself
From diving into a sparkling pool of lies
Your voice does not reside
in the cradle of my heart
like it used to
Wine and mushy cookies
no longer make me hungry
for you like before
What actually resembles us now
Are these ashes from my half finished cigarette
Slowly falling on the floor
It's smoke that I inhale
And this burn in my chest
Along with these memories
that I regret I made
With someone like you

I will sing to you until fall deep into a sleep you will not wake up from
I will tell you everything is ok when it is not
You didn't expect it
So it never happened
You never left
And you don't know that your gone

When I told the doctor,
About how the voices in my head
Tell me to **** myself,
And how I have anxiety attacks over the simplest of things,
And how it seems that I’m constantly sad.
He said,
“Oh here. Take this.”
And so I did.
But it didn’t help.
So I stopped taking it.
The next doctor gave me a new medication.
And this one seemed to make everything worse.
So I stopped taking it too.
The next doctor told me to go to therapy,
Because that’s what people like me need.
So I did.
And she told me that I was making it all up.
That it was all in my head.
And that If I kept telling these lies that I would be put in the hospital like the rest of the crazies.
If doctors are supposed to help you,
Then why did they only seem to make me worse?
If doctors are supposed to fix the problems,
Then why did they only give me more problems to add to my list?
If doctors are supposed to understand,
Then why did they call me crazy?