Step One Is Admitting You Have A Problem

I

Flight Nineteen

I once thought that I was one of a kind.

Spectacular in many ways, a vision to the blind.

I don't really know what happened.

I just continued my life, day to day,

but something changed.

It could have been in my heart, maybe my thoughts.

My personality could have turned ugly.

The fact is that I can't stand this thought.

Some thought of teenaged angst.

Possibly a power hungry mind.

I have lost control of flight nineteen.

My co pilot was sleeping in the hold.

So I crashed.

I survived but I wish I were one of those that were dead.

I stumbled upon a remote piece of land.

It could be tropical, maybe a snowy mountain,

but the fact is,

I am lost.

Body parts of people I once knew are scattered along the wreckage,

along with abstract pieces of metal,

and miscellaneous pieces of luggage of fellow patrons.

I created this mess and I am the one that has to clean it up.

I take full blame.

Thousands of people's deaths can be laid on my head.

I don't mind.

I am a million miles away from another person.

It doesn't matter if I try to explain myself,

the guilt is still the same.

You can tell me I look just fine

But I still see that ugly image of what I am everyday.

I don't hate what I have done.

I fully accept it.

That doesn't mean I still can't look like a monster.

II

The Secrets I Hide

Nobody can know what I did

But the fact is, I do, at this very moment.

You can tell me I'm pretty

even though I have scars all over my body.

It doesn't matter.

I can think I'm ugly and you can say otherwise,

But it can also go the same way back.

If I feel like monster, why can't people accept me as one?

I remain perfect in others eyes like some angel.

It's like I can kill someone in cold blood.

Everybody will think it's some heartwarming joke.

I can admit it straight to your face and you just laugh along.

Tell me I am doing something wrong.

Please.

Friends tell me I am doing 'better'.

In fact, I feel worse than I ever did.

I just don't tell people about it,

like the drama freak I once was. 

I can't think about me in my own life.

It just reminds me how pitiful I am.

So I think of others,

forget about mine. 

III

The Realization

I think about my life a lot. 

I think about how I live

How I once was. 

I never thought things through when I was young.

Now I do.

I used to do what was best for me.

I don’t think I am capable of that anymore.

Whatever is wrong with me,

it is making me unable to take care of myself as a body.

I can be extremely efficient with money.

I understand economics.

I understand sociology.

I have great reasoning 

I can effectively problem solve.

I could be the smartest man in the world, which I am far from.

Everyone has his or her faults.

I may be excellent with minimal effort,

on any thing that I can manage to touch,

no one is perfect.

I may be great or sad or however you see me,

but I am not perfect.

Then ask me what I am not good at.

I can’t take care of myself.

IV

As I Die Slowly

I can deal with many deaths over my head my head.  

It’s the wreckage I can’t handle.

I would just sit amoung the rubble.

I can help you with anything ethical.

It’s the ethical things in my life I can’t do.

I can help people get through major disabilities.

I can’t even take care of myself when I have a cold.

I can help you up and clean your cuts and scrapes.

I cant even clean out my infected wounds.

I know of this and I know what I am supposed to do,

but I cant.

Something in my body just stops me from helping myself.

If I just isolated myself from the world,

I would not eat,

not even sleep.

I would be dead by the end of the week.

Now that I am becoming independent in my life,

I can do so many things,

but if there is nobody by my side.

Someone who can take care of me.

I would be dead before anyone would hear my name. 

This is my curse,

this is what keeps me up at night.

It is slowly eating my insides.

I don’t even care. 

Remember me