Diagnosis Crazy or How to Become a Member of Society

There is blood on my hands

It is my own

And it can never be washed away

Tears have stained my cheeks

Leaving trails on my face

That lead to no where

There is a prison of my own making

Where the bars are my own dark thoughts

And the sadistic guards laugh at my escape attempts

Corruption overcame my innocence

Before it had a chance to frolic

In the field of dreams that it deserved

Those dark days


When my eyes saw nothing but decay

When I spoke of righteous hate

Because it was easier than

Letting the world see my hysterical terror

Then came maturity

Realizing that the world was not

Against me

Realizing that it barely even noticed me

Just a snowflake in a blizzard

Of writhing human souls

All crying out because they were lost

All trying to shout above the wind

That they too suffered

That they too were lost

This diagnosis that says

You are different

You will never be a part of society

Unless you take these pretty pills

Unless you learn these coping skills

So that maybe

Just maybe

You can be one of them

And if you don’t

There is a tragic end in your future

Side effects include

The numbing of your creativity

A lack of desire to question everything

These miracle chemicals

Will prevent you

From feeling a dangerous purity of emotion

They will help you

They will help you

Until there is no longer a you

And in your normalcy and happiness

You will forget that there ever was a you

And the blood on your hands will fade

Not because it has been washed away

But because blissfully

You will no longer notice it


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