Inside the Ink Stain

You can call this nothing but childish poetry if you want/
Cause honestly/
Your opinions mean nothing to me/
It takes a part of me to make up this poetry/
So it means everything to me/
And 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 are these words the paper snow covered is 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 insanity/
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 these memories/
When I deserve every memory intentionally given to me personally/
Specially those made to cause me pain inside attacking my happiness/
I'lll be honest/
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/
With memories of the psychologically unsteady/
Symmetrically simplistic in this coloured poetry thats making up my reality/
Losing myself in my fantasy/
A chemical chemistry of evolutionary perplexities/
Changing the mentalities of the socially closed personalities/
The ones misunderstanding what's behind this poetry/
When there's so much more then this man and the fact that 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 up from behind/
And I'm suddenly overwhelmed emotionally/
It's as if your falling apart and there's no one there that cares to make it stop/
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 red when I use this razor to write/
Maybe this time someone will take me to heart/
Why the ink cord around my throat is still wet/
An the rest of it's spent on this borrowed piece of parchment/
A page from this mental thought process that's afflicted by the emotionally hopeless/
Constantly dancing with manikins of a manic drug addict/
With cut wrist to remind him that weak thoughts need to become nothing but static/
Keeping my mind distracted/
What secrets are you keeping in the attic/
I'm escaping into a straight jacket fearing my own love as the tragic/
When I've finally had it/
My heart I'll bury it deep, lock set with the sunset/
Secret is, the artist is ment to escape within the ink stain that's set/
This is that for me I'm word spent/