This is Not my Fault: Stephen W. Sigurdson

Making something out of nothing, as daunting as it may seem.
Now people are gone, not coming back, inspiration weakened,
circling an empty track.
Competing with a numb, miserable fellow. He resides inside, passing the hours,
just needing to hide, as his personality sours.
It is funny when once upon a time there was all this promise, then illness,
tarnishes the golden boy, what we all miss, we want to destroy.
Medication has made me a mechanical being, saving me, not
seeing, what was to be.
Now do not discount me, even though I express rejecting words in a constant gun.
I have contributed through writing and art, hoping deep down, that in my own way
I have won, not giving up, and showing my heart, that indeed, more
than my paintbrush, I play a role, an encouraging part.
On bended knee, whether to believe, for having survived, am I strong, or am
being punished for doing something wrong. The question is always there.
Wanting an answer from those that have passed, or a test to show proof.
I need to know, I do not know if I can let go.
I am so misunderstood, I wish I had something to show, I am doing all I can.
Now you would know, this is not my fault.