Epilepsy convulsions and split-second spasms, my split decisions from my split personalities, my pride I take that personally, am I really that dampened when damaged? They deaden my deepest wrestling dread in my self-secluded, society excluded anxiety, A shut-in in this Hell in a Cell. My life, that lie, dis’ life will have you questioning my own morals and codes, the air is always cold in my area code, what do I do with all this distress? I’m in pain, discomfort triumphs and still I am recumbent, currently my placid undercurrent is under construction.
When I do these drugs, I tell myself I’m looking for a cure. This medicine’s essence is supposed to end this depression, all it does is stimulates my thoughts, thins my waist gaunt, imitates my soul which was once lost, insulates the frost, I wish to obliterate these walls, I will kick, spit and claw. My false remedy, murders and renders me until my dependency ascends and sentences me to an eternity of no one remembering, Alexander Kennedy.
I’m relapsing from these memory time capsules, now there’s a hard pill to swallow. Here I am in all my self-loathing and depression… Doesn’t it look like it? Can you see through my cobwebbed veil of deceit?
Alexander Writes 
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