the end

My thought patterns are composed by a time-bomb for an author Like pigs to the slaughter A symphony of self doubt sings out Breath starts getting shorter Running water Is the state that I wish to become Instead concrete envelopes my movement And I am rendered deaf and dumb Unable to heed the advice of others Don't tell me things will get better 'Cause so far things haven't got better I've got the sweater Poster child, bipolar, ADHD, therapists' wet dream I don't wanna talk about my father I don't wanna talk about my dead friend I don't wanna talk about myself I'm sick of talking about myself I'm sick of talking about myself And realising that talking about myself never, ever helps Still, I call for help 'Cause I really want help But the pills didn't seem to help And the therapists didn't seem to help But still, I want help I've danced with the devil in hell I've sat in a prisonless cell And here I always dwell In this prison in myself