Piece by piece I’ve been trying to right all these wrongs I have in front of me. I’m stuck within this puzzle, having all the pieces, but not being able to construct this wonderful picture I’ve so desperately sought after. I’m growing tired to the point of feeling old and numb. Forgetting what progress I’ve made up to this point. My finger rests on that trigger twitching ever so often to the point of wondering if at some point my head will explode with symbolic bullet fragments. Or maybe just the real ones. Blow back everything I’ve worked so hard to have. For what? For avoidance? For trying to stay strong? Is it so strong to hit the reset button every time it gets difficult? To forget what I’ve learned from those who came before me. I’ve been wrestling with my sanity since my brain could process thought. At times I’m a sociopath, feeling nothing, sticking to autopilot just for good measure. Can’t have any dose of feeling. Other times I’m a psychopath, finding comfort in the lunacy of violent and erratic behavior. Feeling everything, avoiding everything. The chaos of that paradox will always be astounding to me. I paint myself black to be avoided and unapproachable. I’m exhausted sharing my baggage with others. I feel like too much of a bother and worry. Outsiders say that I seem to have figured it out. I’m “beating my disease.” Little do they know my disease kicks the shit out of me to the point of self-inflicted scars on my soul. These scars have scars. And the physical scar tissue is enough of a reminder that something has been wrong with me since birth. I’m tired of trying to carve out something of beauty from something I’ve made so grotesque. Trying to find enough light to cast the smallest shadow on this piece of art that’s striving to develop. I’m not in the best head-space and I’m always stuck wondering if I ever was. I can’t tell the difference between living and just breathing. Is everything okay or am I just stimulating my disease? Toying with it to see what comes out on the other side. Some addicts say their addicted to the chaos. I think I’m just complacent and want change. Even though change strikes fear into my heart more than the chance of dying. Caught in the middle, grasping at strings tied to either side of this double life I’m living. I just want to be honest and true. I just want to have beauty in my soul. And maybe everything I write seems conceited. All these rants about my wants and needs. Hell, I’m just trying to be vulnerable. Sometimes what comes out is so backwards that I don’t even know what I just wrote. But if there is one thing that anyone could take from this, it’s this: I am trying. I haven’t given up on myself as dark as my words may seem. I need to bleed out this sickness so I can let some light in. My blood is tainted and I just want to feel pure in a sense that I can see myself. That I can truly feel myself. That I can truly be myself. The real me. Not the one I’ve beaten up and shoved in front of a mirror every day for the past 8 years. Not the one who thinks so little of himself that he can barely get out of bed in the morning. No, I’m trying to find this love my being needs. The only person who can help me is me.