Am I the only one I know waging my wars behind my face and above my throat?
Shadows will scream that I’m alone.

     I’ve got a migraine and my pain will range from up, down, and sideways. Thank God it’s Friday, ’cause Fridays will always be better than Sundays, ’cause Sundays are my suicide days. I don’t know why they always seem so dismal. Thunderstorms, clouds, snow, and a slight drizzle, whether it’s the weather or the letters by my bed, sometimes death seems better than the migraine in my head. Let it be said what the headache represents; It’s me defending in suspense, it’s me suspended in a defenseless test, being tested by a ruthless examiner that’s represented best by my depressing thoughts. I do not have writer’s block, my writer just hates the clock. It will not let me sleep, I guess I’ll sleep when I’m dead, and sometimes death seems better than the migraine in my head.

     I am not as fine as I seem. Pardon me for yelling, I’m telling you green gardens are not what’s growing in my psyche. It’s a different me, a difficult beast feasting on burnt down trees. Freeze frame please, let me paint a mental picture portrait, something you won’t forget. It’s all about my forehead, and how it is a door that holds back contents that make Pandora’s Box’s contents look nonviolent. Behind my eyelids are islands of violence. My mind’s shipwrecked, this is the only land my mind could find. I did not know it was such a violent island, full of tidal waves, suicidal crazed lions. They’re trying to eat me, blood running down their chin, and I know that I can fight or I can let the lion win. I begin to assemble what weapons I can find, ’cause sometimes to stay alive you’ve got to kill your mind.

     And I will say that we should take a day to break away from all the pain our brain has made.
The game is not played alone, and I will say that we should take a moment and hold it, and keep it frozen and know that life has a hopeful undertone.

21 Pilots – Migraine

This is not a suicide letter, 

I just want to get a real close look at death,

Touch his matted hair as I pass him by.

-William Control