We All Fall Down

To be frank,
I'm not good with poems,
But this is a poem about me,
About the life I live.

Being seventeen,
I haven't gotten far in this world,
No license, no job, not getting anywhere,
That's my life.

My accomplishments?
High school newspaper,
An English academic award,
And a scholarship for college.

My flaws?
Socially awkward, anti-social,
A mixture of manic/depressive bipolar,
And way too many pills to make me "normal."

So I stress,
More than someone my age should,
Because my family pressures me,
And I don't know how to build proper and healthy relationships.

And I'm trying to learn,
How to control my disorder,
How to live "normally,"
And how to function in society.

The pressure is killing me though,
I feel trapped,
And I'm fighting my disorder,
Like a war inside my head.

The stress is breaking me,
As my stepmother screams,
And my father doesn't understand,
What my mother exactly passed down to me.

So I think about death again,
And I'm afraid to admit it,
Because I don't want to be sent away,
To think about life in a mental institution.

I keep my medicines normal,
And I stare at the orange bottles,
Late at night,
When the drugs sometimes don't handle my insomnia.

And I see my psychiatrist every three months,
Because my family can't afford it,
And I seem fine,
But I want to tell her all my problems.

I've gotten to the point where I wear a plastic smile,
And spend a lot of time in my room,
Talking to my fish,
And wondering if he's happy.

So I don't know where to go,
But at the same time I want to stay,
And I want to keep the crimson lines,
Far away from my wrists.

Here I am Mibba,
The place where my writing calls home,
But I'm a little messed up in the head,
Because I can't hold my own.

And the war in my head continues,
As I sit here in class,
While I wondering if I'm doing the right thing,
Just thinking about all of this.

I know I'm not the only one,
Who always feels this way,
So come join me here,
In a poem that chases all the bad feelings,

Far, far away.