Bullshit.

It’s all fucking bullshit.

Medication.
Doctors.
Psychiatrists.
Psychiatric Hospitals.
People…. well, not all.

The medication kills me inside; it dampens my spirit. Renders my creativity non-existent.

The doctors think they know me, when they don’t know shit about me.

The Psychiatrists talk their talk, but it all goes over my head.

Psychiatric hospitals are just scrapyards for the crazy people.

People. Well, I just don’t like them. Not all, but most. They’re just too people-ly.

It’s all bullshit.

I cling on for dear life, as my comfort blanket is ripped from my hands. One by one, the penguins steal my sanity. Holding on to the small glimmer of hope, that one day, maybe soon, that everything will work out alright. Lady luck will rain on me. I sure need it.

I obsess over taking my own life; I wish it would stop.

I freak out at the smallest thing; lost my control and let loose my anger.

I want to be a normal person again; but it feels like that’ll never happen.

I wish, so hard, that I wasn’t so messed up inside.

It’s sure dark in my world right now, but I see things so clearly. So vividly and alive. Colours, patterns, life. It’s blinding me. Mixed up is an understatement.

My concentration is out of the window, I can’t focus on anything. I just smoke and stare into space. Looking out into the vast abyss that is the world. Hoping, praying, for the day that this is all over.

 

 

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