No help provided, the sick things uninvited,
the way to save my mother or call upon my brother.
Panic attack at 4 AM, and I can no longer feel who I am.
Clouds rush in like demons to laugh, and exhaustion is the aftermath.
Here is your past, take it at will, and be condemned for taking a pill- that stops the thoughts from racing so long, as you stand there and smoke in your bra & thong.
Can’t leave the house, someone might hurt you- after all your own dad did desert you.
Be afraid of the will of the doubt- strangle it all and muffle your shout.
You’re not worth saving- and not many care- so go to sleep and cuddle the air.
Dead is dead and this life is a race- for the fastest car or the prettiest face.
A joke to be told and Jesus weeps- that he actually hung on the cross for us creeps.
What good is art without an eye, what good are these lines when you sit there and die…