my usual tuesday night
by cor

incapacitated figure
laying on the couch
curled up
by my own thoughts

im gonna grab this fucking guitar
and throw it across the room
kick the shelves and smash
the dvds
break the glass on the fucking television
jump from my second story window
and run with my broken legs
and broken mind
down the street

i grip the fresh prescription bottle
i cant wait
to take risperdal tonight
and fall asleep
maybe tomorrow
clean clothes and shower and shave
and breakfast and lunch and poetry class
without feeling like i could crack
and plunge knives into my stomach

and theres homework to be done
projects to finish
all piling up in my backpack
each one a weight that
burdens me more
and i 
like a mule 
stubbornly carry it

The burns let the crazy out
slowly like the air in a tire
and it makes a hiss as it escapes
but i cant burn anymore
because what explanation to the doctors
do i have left to give
except that it hurts to keep
holding in all this violence welled up inside
and they take the furniture out of their offices
so i dont throw anything
and it makes me feel more unstable to know
that i scare them so much

no doctor knows whats wrong though
so they prescribe me antidepressants
and stimulants
and antipsychotics
and they ask me things like
"are you hearing voices?"
"do you fantasize about committing suicide?"
"do you have a history of abuse?"

i dont know anymore
i dont understand how i went from being
a shy teenager to this
i used to think i was just weird
that i had dark thoughts
the only way to get them out was to write
and so from this couch
i pick up my laptop
create a new text document
and do just that