I can’t listen.
My mind is a prison.
Tears fall down my cheek.

My confidence weak.
No appetite to eat.
Thoughts race and prevent me from sleep.

Bags under my eyes.
Whats that in the sky?
They tell me its just a phase.

ADD isn’t real.
Why is this such a big deal?
Little do they know it ruins my days.

Can’t focus in class.
Teachers think its a load of crap.
No one understands that this isn’t okay.

I try so hard.
I studied all night!
But I always seem to fail.

Look at my medication.
Look up the facts.
When will they realize ADHD is real.

Reality and daydreams.
Which one is real?
Which is more important;
The lesson in class, or the color of my nails?

My confidence; frail
My complexion; pale
My mind?
A jail.

But I put on a smile.
Make life seem worthwhile.
Because once in a while I can finish a task.

But pretending i’m fine.
Missing homework deadlines.
It’s like i’m hiding myself with a mask.

Don’t get me wrong.
Some people have it worse.
At least I have a roof over my head.

Although i’ve cried.
I’ve never considered suicide.
But others wish to be dead.

So treat me with respect.
Break the stigma.
And educate yourself.

ADHD is real.
It’s an unfair deal.
So you can choose to understand mental health.

I don’t have enough focus to listen.
And thats what your missing.
This is not a choice, this is something I dread.

So next time you judge me.
Next time you label me.
Remember, some with ADHD wish to be dead.

I’m no author, novelist or poet.
I’m just Me,
And don’t I know it.
I don’t need to be classified,
As long as I’m writing, I’m satisfied.

Typing out words, line by line,
I don’t care if they don’t rhyme.
I don’t care if my verses don’t scan:
I’m not always an Iambic Man.

I just say what I gotta say,
I’m not worried about any pay.
Words come to me without much bidding,
The world of its evils I hope to be ridding.

I love to spread lots and lots of Love,
Bringing peace to all like a messenger dove.
Things of beauty bring joy, John Keats rightly said,
To make us sleep easy when we go to bed.

So I’ll paint what I paint,
And sing what I sing,
Just letting those words
Do their magical thing.

Paul Butters

You made a poet fall in love with you
And expected her not to write sonnets about your eyes
Haikus about the way you kissed her in the moonlight
Expected the fire in her heart not to inspire couplets
You made a poet fall in love with you, and when you left
Expected her not to write pages about the ache in her chest
Write a soliloquy dedicated to her tears
Expected her not to feel every gut wrenching moment of the pen hitting paper like your words hit her in the most vulnerable places of her mind.
You made a poet fall in love with you, and you expected her to be silent.
That is no fault of hers.

are you dead too?