Coffee coffee,

runs through my veins.

Coffee, coffee

keeps me from pains.

Withdrawal is not much fun

Oh cursed cursed sun

Am I bleeding the right color?

Is it the right amount?

Want to make sure it’s correct,

Since it’s from all the words you spout

You tell tall tales

And wicked creeping lies

You give sharp looks,

That are chilling but yet confide

You build an ivory tower

So no one can ever reach,

You grip a string of power

Then look down and preach

How can I please you?

So you won’t say my name,

My blood is what I’ll feed you

In hopes that you’ll stay tamed

I don’t believe that hell is opposite a heaven,

or a prison for sinners,

where we're punished for trangessions.

Nor is it some natural force, or any kind of entity

that enforces a moral script relevant to all humanity.

We all carry our own purgatories,

billowing flames fueled by our tramatic stories.

Each of us house our own demons,

infiltrating the brain,

plaguing it with afflictions.

Sometimes my demon holds knife against my skin,

leaving trails both thick and thin.

Drowning me in the red rivers that fall by my toe,

my happiness and self-respect in their flow.

My bipolar is my hell, it's gates won't let me go.

Paint the world gray on a sunny day.

Lack of serotonin, lack of melatonin

makes me crave that oxytocin.

But from loved ones I abstain,

and therefore cannot retain

the love they want me to obtain

to heal my godforsaken brain.

My hell is heaven,

masked by depression.

My hell is not a place

illuminated by flames,

but an intangible space

where on myself I place all blames.

I am not myself, I'm full of spite

saying things that can cut you like a knife.

To my loved ones for this I apologize.

But please, I just want you to realize

that when I look at you with angry eyes

I still love you, these words are just a bunch of bipolar lies.

Show me a mood chart, sad to happy, scales 1 through 10

Never do I feel past 3, and never under a 7.

Indiscriminate of time, length and location,

so unpredictable, I never know when I'll feel alleviation.

This is what my hell looks like.

A force that's taken over my body

controlling my life like the third reich.

Dear gods,

Wherever you may be...

I beg you to rip the Earth apart to bring me a lover.

Tear rocks from the mountains to make him hard and strong.

Use only the softest blades of grass to weave his skin,

So that holding him will feel like coming home.

Tie the wind to his spirit, to let him be free and wild.

But do not take the poor stars for his eyes, for they have given so much already.

Instead, dive deep into the ocean and capture its glow,

So that his eyes will captivate - ringing clear and deep.

Complete him by harvesting fire so that he will burn,

With love and passion so wondrous even you - Gods - will have to turn away.

I know you will not let me keep him for long,

As it is not your way to make things for just one person.

You will make him a beacon for all, but I beg of you - oh Gods...

Let me have him while he is still here.

Let me love him, let him be mine.

Until all the pieces of him will return to the earth once more.

The shower doesn't work properly and our roof is infested with mice. To make things worse we found out that our bathroom is sprawled with termites. I get to stare at the gaping whole, watching creatures wriggle around while I'm brushing my teeth. I came to realise that my house was just a representation of my life. Only a few pillars remain, but even those are starting to crumble away. I've been given numbers for tradies, I'm too scared to call them. Nobody can see what's happening, I don't want them too. I still want help though, someone to make this journey easier. I'll wait here in my crumbling house until eventually it'll all break down.