Ive been in a big machine.
Had wires on my head.
Daily doses of depression.
And pricks of blood to test.
The light is my weakness.
And i fear going to bed.
An unwanted shutdown.
Numb face, hands and chest.
I feel my heart pounding.
The high in my veins.
I have to. I HAVE TO.
Rarity is not science's friend.
So one more test.
One more machine.
Another wire.
Just one more prick.
Another dose...
To see why I'm depressed.
YOU ARE READING
My war.
PoetryI have been diagnosed, ripped apart, shot down, kicked around. But ill be on broadway. Even if i have to buy a street, name it broadway and perform. In all seriousness, instead of sleeping forever, i wrote out my war.
