I don't know if I've posted this here before, but it sums up a lot of my feelings about being diagnosed with bipolar disorder.
The Madwoman In The Attic
It's been 16 years since I died.
They buried me here, and here I
remain. The Attic is a lonesome
fate for one so young. For I was
16 when the key turned in the lock.
Funny, they call it an illness-
"mental illness"-
and yet, I am heaped with shame,
not sympathy. I have grown old in
my prison cell, but I am fated to never
grow up. The pills they give are in vain.
The doctors brush off the "side" effects,
but my body is bloated and broken,
a parody of the girl I was,
before.
My caretakers (captors?)
simply expect my premature death
like one expects rain on an overcast
day. Poor fools. Didn't they read Bronte?
The Madwoman in that Attic
didn't just take their shit.
She burned down the house around her.
The Madwoman In The Attic
It's been 16 years since I died.
They buried me here, and here I
remain. The Attic is a lonesome
fate for one so young. For I was
16 when the key turned in the lock.
Funny, they call it an illness-
"mental illness"-
and yet, I am heaped with shame,
not sympathy. I have grown old in
my prison cell, but I am fated to never
grow up. The pills they give are in vain.
The doctors brush off the "side" effects,
but my body is bloated and broken,
a parody of the girl I was,
before.
My caretakers (captors?)
simply expect my premature death
like one expects rain on an overcast
day. Poor fools. Didn't they read Bronte?
The Madwoman in that Attic
didn't just take their shit.
She burned down the house around her.
No comments:
Post a Comment