Life is but a garden bed,
The rain it comes and goes,
You can ***** yourself on all the thorns,
Or you could learn to love the rose.

Don't ever think you are alone here,
We've all been trapped in different hells,
And people aren't against you Dear,
They're just all for themselves.

I live inside the shadows,
For there is comfort in being out of sight,
I fear you will see right through me,
If you hold me to the light.

Disgust,
Mistrust,
It was never love, only lust.

Poetry has always been the medicine for my tired, tormented head,
They tried to numb me away with many tiny pills, but "I'll be okay" I said.
With confusion, I knew none would understand,
What writing does for me, why typing or a pencil was more powerful than any drug induced trance.

When all has frightened me,
From voices, hallucinations, and death,
Writing is my heaven from the monsters who tell me:
"No one cares or loves you, just shut the hell up and go to bed."

I have found that often, love is like a cult...
Often easy to fall into and join, yet, hard and debilitating to leave.

Lies, like a bandaid,
When ripped off,
Reveals a painful truth.