They want me to be a plane. Lifted by the fresh winds that they themselves create.
Hoping this flight would never end. They made me believe instead of pretend. I didn't mind as they dictated my life. As long as they didn't **** me with their knife.
Then the plane comes crashing down, Into the deep dark ocean, leaving me to drown. I resisted the cold at first, but soon felt comfort in the worst.
I was reminded of their stain that they have left in my brain.
This poem is about crashing from a hypomanic episode into a depressive one.