In My Head

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.