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Wednesday, June 14, 2006


Brain Damage -poem
This room, an Islam
These walls, padded tight
these pills within me
Make me want to take my life
You call this a treatment
You call this living
Caged animals
Have more freedom
Then humans
With suicidal tendencies
You call yourself a doctor
But the problems not fixed
So you lock me in a padded room
In hopes that I'll stop being "sick"
This is not a treatment
Nor is it a "problem solved"
I feel worse then I once did
Before I tried to end it all
A fire breaks out
Within my eyes
And the scars start to throb
Upon my thighs
And suddenly I feel fine
But is this a bizarre demise?

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