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Poem
I can no longer hear the voices, 
so now I'm not sure what to say. 
I've come to the conclusion 
that they would know a better way to tell this story.
At least if I could hear their opinions or suggestions, 
that would help me to get a definite idea in what order this should be said.
They might of even told me when to add something important, 
and leave out the unneeded information. 
After all, I've known them for so long, and had their help this far, 
I'm not exactly good at these types of things anymore.
Many things have happened, but I don't know where to start, 
let alone the fact that my mind tricks me into seeing what isn't there, 
and for once they aren't here to warn me. 
It's like one moment my memories are engraved in stone, 
to the next moment they are being washed away by the ocean tide, 
taking the restless sand out to sea.
Thats the big problem with being labeled, crazy; 
you're never sure about the things you see.
I could start by telling you, 
it ended in death but to that effect, it also started in death.
So, I'm not exactly sure of what to say. 
Maybe, just maybe I could try to remember something before I went utterly mad. 
All I know in this moment is that some people died, 
and I'm lucky enough not to be one of them. 
The voices told me so, 
that was the last thing they said nefore they left me alone.
instead of their whispers, 
all I have now is the medications that are beign shoved down my throat daily. 
The oval egg-shell blue pill, or my psychotropic pill sickens me. 
Followed by me swollowing the pill,
 my mouth becomes dry until I'm practily weezing and gasping for air, 
as I bang my fists against my own chest so I can breathe.
This pill is like an elevator that can only stay 
in one place for so long but cannot go up. 
The doctors keep saying no matter how happy I feel, 
it's just a facade, a hoax, a joke, 
for the real emotion is lying in wait for the right moment to pounce and release my 
hell bound anger, 
or so they tell me
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