I've never claimed to be a psychiatrist,
I don't know the anatomy of the brain.
I can't give out prescriptions,
I can't diagnose someone 'insane'.
But torn up bits of plain A4 paper,
Are no good to anyone.
Neither is an unfinished canvas,
Or an unloaded pistol gun.
Am I connected to the world,
is my soul sleeping or awake?
What direction do I go in now?
How many steps do I even take?
Analysis and analysis,
thinking over and over again.
The lines are so blurred over now,
I don't know what's real and what's pretend.
What am I even parts of?
I thought I was the manipulator of reverse psychology.
Why is nothing ever the same?
I thought I could choose who I wanted to be.
We were born a certain way,
and I guess some ways are considered bad?
I used to observe other people,
To see what it was that I didn't have.
I can't believe how desperate I was for affection,
a sad, pathetic and lonely girl.
I copied others mannerisms,
And I destroyed my whole entire world.
I was broken into loads of pieces,
Thousands of tiny shards.
Kind of like that A4 paper,
but even more useless as broken glass.
Everything is spinning,
My mental health is becoming poor.
I want to treat the problem
But I don't know how to anymore.
People expect me to have plans,
and know what I aspire to be.
Yes, I need to set goals
but how can I without a fixed personality?
