Recovering

Fri, 10/30/2015 - 14:32 -- Demaaga

I am

a little off

never quite

fitting in

mildly autistic

a little bit artistic

my childhood acidic.

I am young

the first time

I say I

wanna

die.

Less than nothing

happens,

changes,

rearranges.

I am outcast,

unaware of

what to wear,

how to act,

who to be

(don’t know how to be me).

I am hopeful

for a moment,

a great bit button

named college,

push to restart.

I am not winning,

not losing,

barely

being.

Being

sucked under

by alcohol

and depression.

I am lost.

I am still alive,

barely.

If at first

you don’t succeed,

take more pills and

try, try again.

I am locked up

time after time,

doing no good,

for my own good.

Suddenly,

I am grieving

for my grandfather,

then I move in

with my grandmother,

I feel hope,

love,

a chance.

I am starting over

in the wake of

losing her too,

grown up a bit

and

hopeful

more than

I was

ever helpful,

more than I deserved.

I am a new creature,

rising from the ashes,

given yet another chance.

I am growing.

I am recovering. 

This poem is about: 
Me
My family

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