Member Poem

I'm not a doctor, I'm not your cure,
I'm not the medicine that you long for;
I'm not a lifeline, I'm not the boat,
I'm just the salt that'll keep you afloat.

I stare at the noise, drawn to the void,
Conversations that I'll craftily avoid;
I'll walk off the earth, dying since my birth,
Keep running till my bones hit the dirt.

Under the shower, let the hotness devour,
And the water sink into my eyes like a rotten flower;
I've got the deadest face, I'm just a waste of space,
I'll let my heart run free as my soul loses grace.

I'm not a doctor, I'm not a remedy,
I'm just an amalgamation of fading memory;
I'm not a lifeline, I'm not a boat,
I'm just the cross hanging by your throat.

I'm a faulty part, I'm a worthless state of art,
I'm the pitch black darkness inside of your heart;
I'm a book of woes, I'm the thorns of a rose,
I'm the path that leads to the hell that everybody goes.

The ink that I use, it poisons the youth,
It corrodes and swallows the actual truth;
I'm your other side, and in mirrors I hide,
I am your true self and the ghost inside.

I'm not a doctor, I'm not your cure,
I'm just an element of substances unpure;
I'm not a lifeline, I'm not of help,
I'm just the holy book lying on your shelf.