Poems for the Mentally Damaged

i feel

I feel like I'm dead.
Or maybe I'm just empty.
None of that sounds right
They can't be right because I'm feeling
I don't know what I'm feeling
Incomplete?
Broken?
Tossed aside?
Lost?
Why can't I define the emotion that controls my every move, the emotion guiding my hands as they write this unbearable thought process teasing my brain and edging my tongue with the seeming lack of a word perfectly designed for what I'm trying to say that I feel!

That was a lot.
I'm sorry I'm always too much.
I'm so disorganized
I'm so unfocused
I can't seem to control these endless impulses that lead me down darker paths ever deeper into a state of emotional paralysis as I continue shoving drugs into my veins like I promised everybody I wouldn't do anymore and it's driving me insane can't you tell!?!

I'm sorry again.
The thoughts won't organize
They won't form into comprehensive ideas
I swear to you I'm not high right now but God do I really wish I was because at least when I'm high everything makes sense or maybe I just am too high to care if it make sense or maybe it makes sense because certain things can only ever make that much sense when the world comes into that extreme focus achieved only by the acute functionality of being as high as I can physically go without dying.

Or maybe it won't be death it will be a simple transcendence as I let all breathability extend out of me and shut down my brain because I can't seem to decompress and let anything go long enough to heal.

Hurt people hurt people but what about the people like me who hurt and hurt and hurt because I was hurt but I don't know how to stop slashing your wrists like I was back in my own bedroom at thirteen years old and experiencing my first abandonment that I actually understood and knew what was going on when it happened.

Did any of that make sense?
Maybe not to you.
If you know, you know.
I don't know if I know.
Now I'll slow down, and I'll stop,
As I slowly reign myself back in
And stop bleeding all over pages
Pages I was never meant to write upon
And let my dark soul thrust its shadow upon
Maybe I can't heal because I am the disease
Maybe I can't heal because it's scary
Maybe I can't let go, maybe I can't stop
Because that would involve confrontation
Within myself
Confrontation that might kill the light I left on inside the basement of my soul when everyone else left and turned the lights out on my younger self,

When everyone showed me, I was better alone and in the dark.