Drinking Demons

Isn't it ironic?

The things that make us who we are, the things that make our souls beautiful, can actually be hideous, terrifying and evil?

Maybe I'll feel better if I drink it all. It burns when it goes down straight, but not as much as my self-hate.

I don't hate all that I am, but sometimes I wish I could escape the endless battle.

It's never sleeping, without any aid.

It's questioning everything, when there's no reason to do so.

It's hyperactiveness.

It's laziness.

It's procrastination.

It's rage.

My ways of coping are not healthy. There are few that do no damage.

Being breathless for no reason.

Chest pains, and being frozen when you're alone with no reason to be nervous.

Not being able to speak the words on my mind, but hand me a pencil I'll do it fine.

Why must we have these burdens?

I used to say you must go through hell to get to heaven.

I haven't truly believed since I was 11.

Maybe there's a happy place, or maybe this is just my fate.

Either way, I'll be just fine.

It gets better, just give it time.

Even the silence bothers me now.

But I can't be bothered to make a sound.

Paranoia is kicking in.

I'll always wonder what I could have been.

Maybe I'll do better tomorrow.

Rid myself of all these sorrows.

Tilt your head and take a swallow.

I'll take another on the rocks.