Junk of the soul

I'm not alive
If I'm not writing verse or rhyme
I'm not happy
Unless I'm fracturing my mind
It's a dangerous game
I'm not seeking fortune or fame

Just wanna get rid of the junk of the soul
The more I write the more I feel whole
To get it down on paper, do a few lines followed by a few chasers

It's a dangerous game that I play
Just a chain smoker destined to go insane
Something must been wired wrong in my brain
Bipolar, depressive, anxiety, they can't medicate

My heart bleeds at a sunrise
My soul trips to the greenest eyes
But I can't stand my reflection
Sometimes I just like to cry

Whatever makes you feel happy
Should make you feel alive
I use intoxication to rid me of mental frustration
Just naturally born uneasy with a sadness built in me

The all nighters
Watching Autumn bonfire
With paper and pen
Living in a fantasy world of pretend

I Wish I could get a girl
I Wish I had a place in this world
I Wish I could open up to my friends
I wish this all would just end

heroin was a way out of turmoil, anguish and pain
It acted as a shelter from emotional strain
Alcohol helped me to get to sleep
and If I have hurt anyone I am sorry

The path of self destruction
is devastation for the bystanders
The junk of the soul
Starts to take it a toll
But I'm twenty five and still alive
and I guess tomorrow is another day
And I know there must be a way out of this heart ache, sorrow and pain