Began

Happy and creative?
No surely No
Tormented and twisted?
Sure I'll produce.
Destined to play
the tortured artist?
Choosing pain over happiness
to find inspiration?

Did I wish this hell upon myself?
In some twisted way
did my subconscious say
here's some creative drive
to last you the rest of your life?

When life got too much
I used to pull out my pen and paper
Now I tap tap tap
on a laptop
But you can't see the emotion in the words on the screen

My tired journals show tear marked stains
words scribbled out in a downwards spiral down the page
as I try to get the words out in the dark
under the influence, my hand drifts
the lettering is not even
words scribbled out, rewritten and rewritten again
and yet, not considered. 
Bled onto the page

These words on the screen seem too perfect
too thought out
lacking the emotion they're meant to portray

You can't see how my pen presses through the page
as I angrily try to work it all out
The lines get heavier, the letters, bigger
Exclamation points and question marks
left right and centre
It just isn't the same

Colorful YOU

So they gave me love in form of poison and tiny little pills, programming my emotions, teaching me how to feel. To act correct and talk correct and answer without knowing the question, because that, my dear, is how you get love. Yes that, dear youth, is how you'll be loved. I tried to medicate my own fucked up little mind with chemicals and adrenaline, tasting sweeter every night, shaking louder every time. Sitting wide awake in bed until the world disappears, writing poetry to concentrate on something real while waiting for the love to arrive.
I've been looking for it night after night, waiting patiently for it to show up, maybe somewhere in between the state of awake and asleep, alive and not so alive, sober and not so sober.
(I lost track of the difference somewhere in between.)”