Guess I’m supposed to be here.
Impulsive death wish then want to live longer.
May I live to be older, much older than Mother.
Some of us are Einstein and Madonna.
Some are just smart enough to not be stupid.
Guess I’m supposed to here.
Compulsive mindset, never want to be who I am.
May I live to be normal, nominally normal like Mother.
Some of us are Cousin Charles and Dead Dad.
Some are just born to be forgot.
This poem is written on the third anniversary of my living alone for the first time (September 24th). I feel alive. I’ve survived. Tried to take less meds, got a little suicidal recently. Took my meds again and now I want to live again. Fuck. I feel fine now. And September is almost over, thank God.