911

I need help.

After thorough self-realization, I have discovered that I am suffering from a chronic ailment. I do not know how much longer it will be before I turn totally psychotic, because my body has failed to produce the necessary antibiotic. No, I will not pretend. The diagnosis is fatal. I may not have much longer until I face my end. I am only twenty-five years old, and I am still learning to walk outside of my cradle. Pray for me, please. Damn this disease.

I need help.

As of this writing, there is no known cure for my sickness. In a quickness, I sleep infrequently. Chromatic scales cause me to eat inconsistently. I am constantly plagued within a high-level stress environment of which I cannot find escape. I am on the verge of screaming date rape. I am literally torn. My right brain breeds content. My left brain breathes intent. I exist in the middle, not knowing what to repent. There. Did you hear? I just shrieked. Next time listen when I speak.

I need help.

I am not deformed underneath, but you always see me in masquerade. Yes, I even smile on cue. What am I to do, when the only way you want me to communicate is through parade? Wait a minute. What is this? Why another barricade? At times I wonder, who is the bigger fool: me or you? Just pay me on time, or my play is through. If I told you my secrets, would you remember that I was the one who was honest? Tell me, should I confess? Nevertheless, I should learn to live with regret. Forget the encore. I doubt if you can bear to hear more.

I need help.

You claim to be the bomb. Yet, you are incapable of blowing up. I do not understand. I have tried to light the fuse, but it will not ignite. I guess your talent is just too bright. The public is so blinded by your light, that all they want is you out of their sight. Am I right? But, to you, whose career is on a roll, tell me the truth from your soul. Was that really you signing those autographs at that booth? Your mind must have been halfway gone, because you should be arrested for being around all that youth. Very uncouth. You already got a quarter from your own baby tooth.

I need help.

I freshen with every expression. Sometimes, I personify depression, just because I am a member of this profession. Do not act like you did not know. It is always entertaining to view entertainment from the outside. Inside, I would like to say that I chose my discipline, but I cannot. It chose me. Now that I have come to terms with that, I fully accept it as my reality. After all, it is my reality. In a world of strangers, I know my words sound familiar. Are you fearful now? You should be, because this disease does not effect only me. I am still giving thanks for being able to live past twenty-three.

I need help.

Can't you see?