i'm uncomfortable everywhere i go;
as if my body is always in fight or flight mode,
so hard to take care of myself,
what do i know?
sometimes i drive with my eyes closed,
they say im doing better,
but my manic is actually psycho.
i can't even go to a hospital,
but it's 5150.
as if doing better just means getting out of bed finally;
you ask me why i have anxiety,
that there's nothing to worry about,
as a demons inside of me.
i let people talk for me,
because when i speak,
my words are so bleak,
and what's actually on my mind is something that i need to hide.
you tell me to tell you then tell me to stop when i mention s**cide.
im alright,
im really fine,
i say it so much i've convinced my own mind.
© catdimes