(This poem is a little different,
from all the one's before.
But to hell with having a writing style,
I want something more.
So here's an explanation,
of what goes on in my head.
So you can all understand,
how it feels to be dead.)
I don't expect my brain,
to hold out as it's abused.
I'm caught in self destruction,
everytime I'm accused.
You always tell me "I've changed",
well guess what I have to say:
do you know what it's like?
To change who you are twice a day?
"Prone to dramatic mood swings,
so don't be surprised when she breaks"
speaking as though I'm not here,
like an inferior mistake.
Never truely happy,
just driven by obsession.
"She'll have episodes of extreme joy,
followed by manic depression."
When I've so many episodes,
I can't give an introduction.
Inconsistent? Self-deprocating?
So close to self-destruction.
I used to think I had a me,
that I might be found.
I realised I left long ago,
leaving a battle ground.
"Self abusive, insomniac,
these are all just normal signs.
It's incurable, but managable,
an easy read between the lines."
How can it be normal,
Not to be able to sleep?
A mind on a treadmill,
eyes that always weep?
And many different me's,
packed into one little girl,
who always cries,
filled with lies,
which hurt as they unfurl.
Taking steps away from reality,
crossing this mental boarder,
scared of what I'm doing,
run by a Bipolar Disorder.
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depressing poetry...
pretty much poems thas bout it
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