Characters I create,
to fill the empty space on my plate
but their stories have yet to grow,
flesh and bone.
I am not yet living my own.

Listen,
please,
living is hard
when the clock always has you emotionally marred.

Another day “wasted”
experiences anxiously hasted
Avoidance is not the key
productivity is the only cure for me.

I have no value,
there is nothing on my store shelf
I need to make something that will last longer than myself.

I won’t ask you if you understand,
empathy does not exist
please go away,
hear me when I insist.

I don’t need your conversation and empty reassurance
I want your IN surance,
stating that for my claim, if I break down and I am in flames,
I will have coverage,
in your patience.

I’m constantly organizing, and trying to contain
the thoughts and monsters that are in my brain
I’ll push, but please, give me time
understand that nothing is not what I’m,
good at doing.

Anxiety, anxious, anxiousness
physical,sickening worry over nothingness
but the nothings all seem so real
I cannot see beyond what I feel.

Because a bus is a bus
I know this to be true
facts are here but they are too few
when it comes to the crowds of illusionists in blue.

Pity is what I feel for the naive
but jealousy in times like these
it’s hard,
to know what you want
dreams turn from gross to gaunt.

The thin ones  that remain are the ones that I work harder for
they take me over more and more
because when these dreams disband
all that’s left are the scars on my hands.

Scars of what they would have been
scars I now resent
and no amount of soap,
will wash off these pink, jagged dents.

And I’m left without hope
hope of mattering in a world alone
a world that has more plans for the monochrome
where anxiety builds, for me, fading the colours I need to share
because the hardest part is being out there.

Because money is happiness as basic needs
9-5 is guaranteed to feed
but I will not live those hours, I will only be
so please see.

This is what happens
I’ve figured it all out too early
I can’t live like this, surely
these are the atoms
of which I am made.

I have to learn to deal
so that the cement in my face will seal
and I hope that I can hide my mind
well enough to bide,
alone.

I am my own therapist, psychologist
the rest mean well, but they’re all apologists
you’re sorry for the things you don’t understand and the thoughts you cannot rid
it’s easier to shove it down, and glue on the lid.

So I’ll be here,
and they will  be there in my head
the monsters in, and the ones waiting under my bed
and I will look after myself.

The times I slip are not for you to understand, but to be understanding in
I will push it back to the closet well fed
and continue to create on the desk over which I’ve already bled
someday a sentence will catch and I’ll have the proof of past trials on my skin.