When I go to the psychiatrist or doctor, they don’t know what to do with me as I have had all they can offer. People think I am functional because of my creative output, but few know the slippery wall I ascend on a daily basis. That I think of ending it on a daily basis. I don’t think people know how broken I am. The world can’t fix me. I don’t want pity, or even understanding. I just want to rage against a life that is constantly screaming in my ear, and all the time I have lost and will lose due to pain.
Despite tablet upon tablet that has numbed and dumbed and thumbed its nose at laughing time, the voice of the hurt broken child will not go away.
Despite talking therapy, CBT, psychodynamic, schematic, the voice of the hurt, broken child won’t go away.
Despite the adoration of my lover, the kindness of friends, the voice of the hurt, broken child won’t go away.
Despite successful vocation and creativity, the voice of the hurt, broken child won’t go away.
Despite the beautiful line of sun, stars and sea to hand, the voice of the hurt, broken child won’t go away.
Time has laughed at what I’ve lost. I can never catch up. The lost years have stayed lost, savage ghosts of themselves always haunting with a thousand trains made by a thousand nails.
Time and madness stand disgusted with each, with me in the middle, the voice of the broken, child won’t go away as it screams and screams and screams….