The Problem With Me Is...

What could we do to stand eye to eye

Feel the things we forgot to feel,

To reclaim the pulse from the numbing tide?

A safe place for me isn't being locked away,

I've already been separated far too long now.

Distanced from interaction/human touch.

I cant relate or resonate with anyone.

I've been gone for six years, I can't get them out.

Anxiety and suicide trap me.

My ideations own my identity.

I refrain from survival. I bide my time.

I waste away my potential. 

I can't summon the energy.

I can't say the things I want to say

And when I do say them to someone...

There is only silence.

I want to divulge what eats at my core,

Though what I say is too deep to receive.

Couldn't you muster up an answer?

Responses are muted.

Are you afraid because you feel it too?

I've seen too much. People are born crazy.

And sometimes, they're driven crazy.

So bat shit by the actions of others

The brain freezes up, and it taps out

Detaching rationality from the conscience.

Our problems tend to be guided

By worrying only for you and your own.

I want to talk to people. (Sort of...)

But I know what they're capable of.

Pseudo agendas, vindictive, two-faced.

Allowing us to open our vulnerabilities,

In order to be taken advantage of...

I put my trust in the wrong people.

I put my faith in humanity–a little too much.

I've given the title to "Friends" that I shouldn't have.

And like you too, we all learn from that mistake.

Or be condemned to repeat it.

-The definition of Insanity, is doing the same thing over and over again 

expecting a different result, but receiving the same outcome.

Avoid, ignore, detach. To me that's insanity.

Anxiety, depression, aspirations: Insanity.

I've been so holed up in the Southend, 

I cannot escape Dixie Highway and what it does.

These bars you go to drink at, I see you guys uploading photos from...

No one finds a solution in the bottle.

You're just waiting to die like the rest of us.

To be free of whatever bullshit surrounds you.

I'd like to be there too sometimes,

Drowing my sorrows with utter strangers...

And sometimes not.

But I can't get out.

And asking someone for something

Like a ride, is an exercise in its own rite.

It feels like pulling teeth.

I feel bad about myself with so much insecurity in me.

I feel as if  I am a bug to be squashed.

An annoying gnawing-maggot

Who can't take care of his own fucking self.

I'd like to be at that bar. At that place.

At any space. in your photos living.

I can't drive in my life, and never will.

I rock too fucking aggressively behind the wheel.

So I shelved myself.

Why would anyone want to go out of their way? 

I see myself as a burden. Why put someone through that?

Is that my depression? Is that my autism? Is that my anxiety?

Theres so much shit in this life taken for granted.

What do we address more in life? Our ego or our image?

What really fulfills us? ...Ourselves?

My body is a prison.

My loneliness: that's fucking death row...

I can't even look at old faces I know

Because I remember the past,

And it all comes back like I live it again.

Every street corner that I see around me

Is a fucking haunting memory of some sort of agony

That presides over my house of shame.

And some fucking sad story to go with it.

I can't be enamored by anyone.

And if I am, I sabotage everything.

Because I see the potential for failure,

Or being used/being hurt.

So I cut that shit off before it even starts,

Because it's easier that way.

It's a fucking shame, a fucking shame.

Though I can openly address my problems

I have no will or recourse to fix them.

What works for you, will not work for someone else.

It's a giant treadmill of running in circles.

Hiding, then withdrawing, then self-loathing.

Rinse, wash, & repeat.

Dreaming of art, and dreaming of dreams.

I've grown too used to isolation, getting wrapped up in the lone wolf lifestyle.

While admiring some of its traits: 

I am completely fed up with it while loathing my existence, lacking will. 

Being robbed by a disease that benefits neither the virus nor the host.

What kind of fucking disease wants to end itself?

The one I have apparently, it's called "Morbid Depression".

I guess it never got the memo on evolution,

Only the pamphlet on dehabilitation

And a scout badge for self-destruction.

It's not like when I'm down--I'm trying to drag you with me.

It's not like I'm trying to rub it in your face.

It's not like I'd be the negative one in the room implementing Operation Killjoy.

I know some don't understand. Hell, sometimes I don't.

I've accepted it as it is, just what it is.

Some call me a genius.

They could tell me that till I'm blue in the face.

And I'm not going to believe it.

Praise me for being so smart

I'll just say "whatever..." to shift the focus off me and my traits

Because I hate hearing anything about me.

You could tell me eighteen things good about me

And I could tell you eighteen of why I want to die. Legitimately.

I'm alone. A war I battle, alone – separated from contact.

I'd love to talk to you, but reaching out is mentally exhausting.

No pill can fix this. No therapist can mend it.

One can't even find the right thing to say.

I don't even know what I can say, or what to say.

Here's what I've heard before:

"Stop your bitching!" "Quit your whining!"

"Get a job you fucking bum!"

"Maybe you need to get your shit together. . ."

Has that ever fixed any problem?

Has that ever cured crazy?

Hell, I can't even go to bed at a decent hour,

For my goddamn mind attacks all the sides of self

While being bombarded by artistic ideas with no outlet

Then looming on shit in the past

Trying to move forward

Telling my brain "Don't do it."

"Do not grab that extension chord."

"Don't do it." "Hold on, just hold on."

How much longer do we gotta hold on, asshole?

Everyday is suffering.

When you're born, you're already at a disadvantage.

But to be born different adds another challenge.

I could look at it as just another setback.

As I feel some take for granted

I have to work double-hard, even with menial tasks.

What times I do get out into the world I have to see that as "special".

Like seeing the guitarist Buckethead

Because I don't know when I'll ever do it again

And I don't know at which point, on which night,

my brain goes: "Fuck this!" and I commit to suicide again.

Staying up every night, talking me down off of that cliff.

And being locked away in some psychiatric facility

Only validates that shit more for me.

Like okay, put me in for a month

And as soon as I get out, my brain will go:

"Well I'll show you motherfuckers!"

Then there's an obituary you'll regret,

And I'd be completely fine with that.

My brain would want to pay you back in the worst possible way

Without me even giving a shit about my life and faculties.

It would speed up the process.

That's the only time I'd shove it in your face

To get you to finally feel what I've felt since fourteen.

If luck in life was a poker game. . . 

The last six years have been summed up as

I've been playing a full house with fucking Uno cards.

Somebody screams: "Blackjack!"

And I'm yelling out: "Go fish!"

And the past three years have been pretty intense.

Welcome to a peek into my life. The problem with me is Living.

You are your own worst enemy, and, your biggest critic.

I hope this motivates you to change some things about yourself. 

Start living. Stop existing. Stop judging.

And overall, try not to be a piece of shit. . .