What\'s the point of having a voice,
when i can\'t scream or yell by choice,
They tell me it\'s safe to confide,
But deep inside, I know it\'s not a safe ride.
I keep it all hidden, buried within,
As I continue to live in sin.
They don’t know how I carry this pain,
They stopped the hitting, but the scars remain.
It was their form of discipline,
But all I wanted was for them to listen in.
Somehow it was all normal in this country,
And i had to live with this debris.
At a young age,
I felt locked in a cage,
I saw kids playing out,
And i was shutout,
But trust me they were nice to me,
They let me be free.
Just not in the way i\'d known,
I\'d broken many bones,
Bruised many times,
It was a big crime,
But i was treated with love and care,
Fair and square.
Along the road, my brother came along,
And the love for him was more strong,
I felt unseen, unheard and lost,
Did I have to pay such cost?
I was told I didn’t need attention,
But that only fed my growing tension.
I was told how to do things,
And I had my wings,
But that didn\'t mean i was capable,
I felt more breakable,
I started to keep secrets,
And played all fine on the crust.
It was how I tried to cope,
But soon I tried the rope,
Instead of me, my brother got hurt,
It was my dirt,
We were playing a game,
And I am to blame.
Then I learned self-harm,
Making marks on my arm,
At seven, lost and playing the victim,
My psychotic self lost in my system,
I did it with a ball point pen,
And counted to ten.
My cue to cry and wail,
As he stood there all pale,
I hated the love for him,
So i broke his dim,
I lied and cried,
He saw a new side.
But I was putting it on him,
It was very grim,
An alternative approach,I tried music,
My feelings had a place to feel realistic,
It worked and i always had headphones in,
I threw those emotions in the bin.
Years later, I returned to self-harm,
The feeling, still familiar on my arm.
Stapler, scissors—cutting in silence,
I found my way in violence,
The mental health was heavy,
And is still unhealthy.