My Pill.

recently i had a dark experience going through something i thought i wouldn’t have to go through. i thought that maybe my beliefs were false and that maybe what my eyes were seeing was untrue. i thought that having thoughts meant i was listening to  an alter ego. basically i went psyco and it scared me. i stopped doing well at school, and i would stay home and board myself in. i cried. i cried a lot sometimes. i found comfort in music, maryjane and muses that i cant begin to name. it made me discover a world of art. its twisted but its true , all this sadness that pushed toward jumping of balconies sometimes led me to be medicated with art. art sort of saved me. i wrote songs, i danced (in private ) and i wrote. i wrote so much that my pen would run out of ink and i would paint my words with my blood.i bled so well that i knew that if someone ever saw my words they could feel the warmth of my blood. i found a dialogue, a way to let my insecurities out and that was something i realised later on was as good as throwing a life saving ring to someone drowning in an ocean. Only my ocean was hard to understand, i didn’t know what my ocean was. i still am scared sometimes that my ocean may find me when I’m happy at bay right now. i know you might find this boring and stop reading this soon enough. But i wrote a poem a few days ago about what I’ve learnt from my suicidal attempts and wish to share it with all of you.

Square Walls.

Maybe the internal conflict that I face is just my mind waltzing with the inevitable.

Maybe my finger nails are not stained with nicotine but with the shade of the sky I can never seem to notice.

Maybe the steps I take are not steps but leaps over hurdles I can’t even see.

Maybe the words I speak are not what I wish to say, but only drops of what my insides ache to bleed out.

Maybe my mind is not me.

Maybe I am not my mind.

These words that i carve into paper, give me the pill to stay alive.

i hope you find your pill too.

Soon.