- My Dead Body.

So I'm sitting in my bunk right? 

I'm writing down my thoughts, 

just looking around my room lit by the faint moonlight.

I'm paranoid. I scan my room chest feeling tight with a slight edge of anxiety,

sobriety being chased away by a good number of bottles, names in variety.

I'm tired. Man I'm tired. When will these fears retire?

I tiptoe through my days like I'm on a wire, with desire to go higher.

Ascend. Mend a broken mind. Bend what little is left of me because somedays,

I just want a friend.

I'm angry. FUCK I'm angry. 

I try so hard to make other people respect a simple prospect

of who I am. Always told that someday "I'll change". 

Well you're damn right. My pronouns change most days, but 

apparantly thats not what we're talking about. See, I'm okay with

changing. Change is good. But don't get it twisted, if I change,

it's for me. Not anyone else. 

Not Over -