I am years of depression in the making,
A broken concoction of self-help and self-hate.
Progress, the weapon utilised to silence the audience,
Is just as fake as the smile I paint on in the morning,
To hide the desire to either laugh at my suffering,
Or to will my heart to cease beating.

I am composed of trauma’s melodic refrain,
And I am played over my own disturbed backing,
Pretending every moment is a blessing,
When really I am gluing my pieces back together,
Finding discarded shards all over my psyche,
Pretending I am on a journey of self-discovery.

I am bursting at the seams with rage,
Sewing myself a harness to contain my mania
With the snapped threads of my heart strings.
The blood thirsty fever dripping from my jaws,
The seething grit that sits in my grin,
Aims as inwardly as it does outward.