Day 2. Realization.

Talking to people during these stages turns useless. The thought of ignoring them sets in minutes before their words leave their lips. Sentences lost in space with out making a hit on their targets ears. Welcome to your body in a nervous breakdown. Pass out, it might feel better to come to feeling like you’re seeing everything for the first time again.

Now you wish you would have thought what you are thinking now, then. The evidence was left everywhere to be found; You don’t even need to take the prints for this one. Gazing at the sky never answered so many questions…there still aren’t enough answers. It’s the only time you feel alone, on the verge of sleep and being wide-awake day dreaming about dreaming. The world isn’t big enough for all the secrets you’re keeping.

People will tell you things to make you feel better about your self. Things that might be genuine, but little do they know that they don’t know you at all. Quick fixes only last you so long until you’re coming down and you need something else to pick you up. Your drug: their pain, your cure: your pain. It’s the only way you know to live. It’s the only way you’re going to die.

How does it feel to know that people were right about you? They called it from a mile away. You didn’t know you were wearing a sign that said “royally fucked” that can be read 20 miles down the highway. It’s not hard to see why they know. Looking in the mirror has never felt so dissatisfying. You’re all you know. Nothing ever came of what you were supposed to be.

Go to sleep, day 2 is over. How many more days until you stop feeling this way? The clocks hand punches you square in the mouth, minute after minute, second after second. Spit out your teeth, each one of them wouldn’t even amount to the secrets you hold inside of me.


Your mouth tastes human. Your mind feels wasted.

Day 1: Guilt.

The day it finally settles in. Finally after hours of contemplation and reasoning, you finally come to terms with what you’ve done. The way a bipolar disordered mind works. There’s nothing anyone could have done to make you feel anything other than complete indifference. It’s times like this when you ask your self why you’re still breathing.

This is the day you sit in a room full of people and can’t help but feel like you have nothing in common with them. You ask your self if they have done anything like you just did, you wonder what hides inside, what skeletons do they have in their closets. You stopped taking your meds and you’re teetering on self-destruction and learning a valuable lesson. With a mind like yours, who needs a valuable lesson? You’ll forget it when you go to sleep. Wake up and start that routine that got you writing this in the first place.

Now’s the time you think about how you fucked it up, so bad beyond repair. What makes you think what you did was a good idea at the time? It’s the knack for having; scratch that, needing chaos in your life. Day dreaming of “how it could have been” gets you nothing. It’s gone, and now it’s really never coming back. No matter how much you (don’t) want it, it’ll never come back. Recollection of the way things used to be gets you nowhere. All the “sorry’s” and “forgive me’s” can never add up.

This isn’t the first time this feeling has happened. The nostalgia and irony leaves a disgusting after taste in your mouth. It’s like a plaque build up that nothing can remedy. Scars align. It’s time to own up to what you’ve done. You’re only human, is that an excuse? No. Does it help you cope? No. “Another bump” is such a crock of shit. If that’s the case your life is a cobble stone road. The knife is being shoved right into that scarred tissue from your previous fuck up. Here’s to another day spent counting the days till you end.

21 years of descent and you still haven’t hit the dirt. Nothing’s wrong, but you can’t find the right. Maybe everything’s so wrong that you feel it’s right. Get used to it kid, you’re in for a bumpy ride and you’re not getting off any time soon.


You brought this on your self.