I'm an addict.

I'm addicted to this world. 

I'm stuck in a self created rut that gets deeper every single day,

I sit in this chair with my head bowed, I can't control a single thing around me. 

I can't control my thoughts, I don't have the simple liberty of being able to think at a 

speed at which doesn't slow everything else around me down. I think faster than my body 

acts, it dwindles in the shadow of my thought. 

 

I can't control my anxiety, it seeps through my clothes, 

consuming every aspect of me you can see. You can't even imagine what

it does to what you can't see.

 

I can't control my past. The simple reminders in everyday life of images burned into

my brain. Images that should be asleep, but stay awake almost as much as I do.

The insomnia, the letters lifting from the page and tracing themselves into my eyelids.

The music, the melody and rythm that chatters of the walls of my skull. 

My hands and pencils but my brain is an eraser.

 

I'm addicted to the chorus. The peek of our lives. The first high in a legacy of pain.

 

So I will sit at my desk. I'll compose you my highs and lows. 

For a very long time, I don't think I'll understand why I do it. 

But I will. No matter who says otherwise.

My bones are brittle. My nerves are rigid. I am weak. 

 

But I'm still here. 

 

My body is broken, my mind is plagued. 

My hope relies on the nature of daylight in the dead of night. 

Even in its so, so few appearances, for it instilles,

 

and I'm still here.

 

I'm addicted to the somber melody, the hope lies in the minor. 

 

But I'll smile if you ask,

 

and maybe that smile can tell you I'm here.