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Sweet Child I am made of stronger stuff, they know not what they name, they know not. it isn't it isn't , the carnival of chaos that drills our head, lights on a switch, the only pain is the scare, the bite, it's jaws let go, they know not. It is not manic depression It is not bi-polar disease. This is the hell, the dying, the world, the end of the last molecule of the razor's blade. There is something else, you don't need distractions, bright signs, cool-aides and cafeine. You don't need their help, their institutions, and drugs. Suicide is our lure, it holds that hidden draw, like a quarter in the grass, you know it's there. You feel like god, like the devil, and all the things ever foretold. Like a silly clown and a bloodied laughing killer. You grow so tired and you only want to let go, then it leaves. Life is fine again, and it bites again, a snake in the grass, that is the shock, the worst of it, the knowledge. i know not my treatment, my thread. I could name a thousand things, because they feel like they've always been there. I know each of them so well, like a soul that's had a thousand lives to get to know them, it's in the mundane, it's the trivial, it's every little detail. Annoyance loudness T.V. and Diane Sawyers dang tone of voice, they are all what drives us insane, it turns against us and then kisses us so passionatly the next. |