I'm filled with laughter and I'm filled with hate. Bipolar destruction that's not so great. Stuck with depression urged by perfection, a smile that's desired and a cry that's gone tired. I get these thoughts that seem like only I have fought and a mind that's been taught to deal with the pressure. Tears that don't bother to fall, my head high, and me trying to stand tall. Stuck in the middle of a war, nothing but scars and soars. A scream starting deep within my lungs and ending with the tip of my tongue. Left to hurt and strung out to die, I probably didn't even question why. Murdered by the health of my mental, it was all fun and games I swear the damage was accidental. I shouldn't have said that I was fine, I should have never told those lies. Crying is a weakness not a weapon, I beg you, just let me live for another second. It all clicks together and my purpose is done, leave the room and leave the gun. I give up, I don't owe an explanation. My life? Not to fond of the duration. Happy? Not even in the least. You? I'm so sorry about the grief. At slightest I tried my best, should have known the obstacle was the real test. For the pain, I leave to the rest. Because I, this person, me, am dead.