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There was a time in my life in which thought Suicide was the only answer.
It was a delusional cancer that changed the way I thought.
And it's not something that can just be brushed off, it rots your brain with pain 'til you're fraught.
You start to believe that the only way to relieve yourself is through death.
'Cause an ounce of lead is all it takes to lay your aches to rest.
And it's hard. Because you start to feel like you're Macbeth in some Shakespearean tragedy.
And even the majesty of seven soothing Seraphim, telling you it'll all be okay, couldn't let you live happily.
So do you know what I did? I made art.
The kind of art that's a part of yourself, and that nobody else could feel, but now they can see.
I figured if I wanted to heal I would have to release these demons inside of me.
So what I did was I poured my demons into a pen, and made them my ink.
And I wrote. I wrote down every screaming thought inside head, Streamed them through a pen and now it's not so loud in my head.
And I'll be honest, I sucked at first.
But it was better to vomit and a page than to never allay this legion of screamin' demons inside my brain.
Because there's something chemically wrong with me and ten thousand white coats could never figure out how to fix it.
But what they call a flat tire,
I called gasoline.
Because in time I found people who accepted both me and my art.
People who didn't care that I put scars on my arm
or that my brain was burnt and charred from medication that sedated the demons and my marred heart.
So if you're wondering if I'll ever give up, or if I'll ever die. How could I?
When this is the only thing
keeping me alive.
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