My Own Boss - Poetry

Feels like science messed up and I'm the only guy to menstruate

Or the washers spin cycle seems to replicate my mental state.
Light in the tunnel's no closer; it's gets further away.
Conversations with myself, making threats in a murderous way.
Lay awake in the night, pray to sleep in the day.
It's like the devil only talks when no one else wants to play.
How can you be the boss, when you can't stay in charge of yourself?
How can you be independent but scared to be alone with yourself?
Rich in life, high off life but unable to enjoy your wealth.
Smile anyway. There's nothing wrong with you mental health.
Right?
Pretending to cope,
Drowning in seas of lost hope,
Waving goodbye, rolling downhill on this slippery slope.

Weary eyes holding me prisoner,

amidst a blast of yawns, I am sewn,

deep within slumblerless depression.

Vexed and wedged between joy and justice.

The executioner is stalling for me; aroused as I gasp to be put to rest.

Yearning to open the doors to ecstacy.

Alone in my struggle.

No mans land contains only one way streets.

The swords of the night against my neck. My eyes call for justice.

My predicament chuckled upon.

Filthy hecklers of my head.

Only the lids of my eyes feel my plight,

They as me long to mumble... Goodnight!