You can call this nothing but childish poetry if you want cause honestly/
Your opinions meannothing to me/
When I take a part of me to make up this poetry it means everything to me/
So you see it doesnt bother me cause this is my poetry/
An no lie when I say, so what if you don\'t understand these words I write, I don\'t care if you can read this pens bite/
Still as oil these words the paper snow covered white/
The reason my sanity has yet to flee, even though everyday I\'m looking at this knifes blade for mercy/
Constantly bordering conformity of this eventual reality, lost in my own sanity/
I\'m individually ment to be mentally segregated to keep steadily the steady loss of a sane mentality/
As I kept barely shackled separately separate from my misery an their memories/
When I deserve every memory intentionally given to me, specially those made to cause me pain/
So the ones who sent it can dry the rain from their eyes I apologise/
I\'m like Dr.Jekyll holding on desperately to hide the Mr.Hide hidden inside the memories of the psychologically unsteady/
Symmetrically simplistic in this coloured poetry making up reality while losing us in our fantasy/
A chemical chemistry of evolutionary perplexities changing the mentalities of the socially close personalities/
The ones misunderstanding what\'s behind this poetry when there\'s so much more then this man and the fact he\'s lonely/
These poems being what I feel each night, why I\'m able to continue to write/
Making words rhyme to fight thoughts of suicide/
Making up poems line after line is the only thing that makes me feel fine/
It\'s what keeps me from completely losing my mind during those moments when anxiety comes from behind/
Suddenly overwhelmed emotionally as if it\'s all falling apart and there\'s no one there to care/
No one to listen when your not sure if your life is worth living or when the pain is so deep your needing something to numb the feeling/
Now posted on this line paper dyed riding hood red when I use this razor blade to write, maybe this time someone will take me to heart/
Why the ink cord around my throat is still wet an the rest is spent on this borrowed piece of parchment/
A page from this mental thought process that\'s afflicted by the emotionally psychotic romantic of the hopeless/
Constant dancing with manikins of a manic drug addict with cut wrist left toxic/
Causing weak thoughts to become nothing but static/
Keeping my thoughts broken up and distracted what secrets are you keeping in the attic/
That\'s when it happened an all I could do is just watch it, it was so sudden/
Out of no where an escaped hospital patient runs by escaping inside a straight jacket straps pulled tight a reality thought to be plastic/
Runs further and further down the hallway towards the exit door/
An then he\'s through now free more then ever before i shud have been warned/
That exit was the door to my mind and entrance to the prison of a now Psychopathic, the tragic/
He\'s had it.... my heart i buried deep lock set with the sunset/
Everything else down in the casket means nothing to me foubt I\'ll regret it/
Secret is, the artist is ment to escape within the ink stain, the poets most loved for the painted/