Each word
a needle
piercing my veins.
Each stanza
a stitch
to help close
the gaping wound
that gushes away my sanity.

I write in hopes that in the end
I will still have one shred of
sanity left.

I write to tell the world
what it doesn’t went to hear,
the truth,
covered in dust,
laying beneath this armoire
full of lies,
where it was
kicked so long ago.

I write because
writing is all I have,
the only escape from the schizophrenic normality of day-to-day life.
Each word
a cut,
slowly slicing through
the bars that keep me from reaching
the light at the end of the tunnel.

I write because
asylums
aren’t fun.
I write because I want to keep
that last shred of
sanity from slipping
away
unlocking the door to my cell
and throwing me in.

I write because my mind is shattered
and I don’t want to get cut on the pieces.