Sometimes, I fear my depression will win
But then I pick up the pen
And all my problems disperse
I'm writing scriptures,
You'd think the lines
Were birthed in a church
But I'm cursed
I'm not sure if those words have worth
And that's a scary confession
But this isn't a verse
It's a frickin' therapy session
I'm finally learning my lesson
I'm finally calling for help
This is probably the most vulnerable
That I've ever felt.
Searching for a sign
We just play the cards that we're dealt
And yeah, I know that there are times
You wish you were someone else
But you see, inside my mind,
I think you're perfect as yourself
Enrichment of the soul
Is the highest form of wealth
So rest now, my love
All that stress is bad for your health

Mysterious models.
Manufactured.
By argon-hearted stars.
Nefarious apostles,
have youth fractured.
Why? Ma & Da's gone.
Departed for Mars.

When surroundings & reality,
are surreal.
You're out of body/don't know how to deal.
Because meaningful,
contact is imagined.
Along with,
how you're not taught to feel.

Destiny is caught,
in an optimistic eyeful,
but, held in the hands,
of glimpsed emptiness.
Those hollow fists, will drop,
the future, set insight, to crash.
Lips, look above,
rather, wry-ful.
Unable to face,
myopic unfriendliness.
They're content, to cozy up,
next to a rash;
- stress induced psoriasis -
caused by; a post-traumatic past.

© poormansdreams

You can't open  the session with,
"How suicidal have you been feeling?"
And expect me not to immediately shut down.

"[Deadname], I know you're not..."
Choose your words carefully.
"stupid,"
Score.

"I know you can do it, you just choose not to."
It was never a choice, just a response.

"Come on, [deadname], just talk to me."
How am I meant to tell you to tell you of the deepest darkest parts of myself when you don't even know
my name.

If I let you read my poems,
      I let you guide into my soul,
Flourished by my deepest thoughts,
      Ways in which I do not tell the world,
Yet, my words have such meaning,
       Such song in the heart.

And if I let you read my poems,
        I let you read a new me,
A chapter that began too long ago,
       As I drift into a lingering sadness,
Writing my way into therapy.  

When I let you read my poems,
        Don't shout to help me,
These poems are quite, subtle to be,
         Silent, yet so loud underneath,
What is it that lies beneath?

And when I let you read my poems,
I have given you my wrenching soul,
Etching to be free,
Connections lie between the lines,
Even when you dont understand, listen to me.

So when I let you read my poems,
I want you to wonder to the world of me,
Watch my soul freeing with relief,
To know that someone knows the hideous parts of me,
That the world will never see.

Days spent inpatient
Couldn't save me from me
Years spent in treatment
Failing to set me free
Dozens of medications
Just to be told it's BPD
Hundreds of coping mechanisms
Yet you still won't believe
I've worn myself out trying
To fight for a release.

Another year, another therapist.
Beginning at the age of 7 and not stopping ever since
Each therapist stealing a bit of my trust
Soon i start making up people to not just stay quiet

Scared of exposing my secrets
The failed attempts in achieving perfection
Or at least what 12 year old me thought was perfection.
The addictions, thoughts, experiences

All locked inside me
To only come out to strangers passing by
And taking the information with them
Keeping their mouths shut.