Alone in your thoughts
Hanging from your cross
The time washes over you
The tourture of nothing brews
Why is it there?
People die elsewhere
Why is it you're bored
Inside your head you hoard
An active mind
That's uninclined
Off in nowhere
Doing nothing

It tooks so long to realise
To see it how it is with your eyes
It started but never stoped
The cycle continuing as more people adopt.

A down-ward-spiral
A poisonous plauge
A spiteful tittle
It makes you beg.

It starts with toxic ideals
And young innocents it steals
Then it lasts for generations
Staying with people's fixation
Its almost like.. recreation.

"I went through this, so can you"
"I fought a war, you can too"
"Get off your *** and be what I do"
"You're as worthless as the gum on my shoe"

And so continues the cycle of abuse
Until someone sees the nature of this noose
After torturous thoughts relentlantly pursues
And the cycle of broken homes and tourcherd souls, ends
And health becoming the new trend.

Within the shadow of a false icon,
Which hangs over me like fallen titans,
The ones who in the darkness of ignorance wore capes and flew,
But now wear maniacal grins and snarl to.
The same person who used to make you want to say live,
Now only force you to to spell it backwards and with yourself become more combative.

He says he misses me,
But that would make three,
Me, mom and The Monster,
He says "straighten your postue"
I miss the days I could look past your hypocrisies,
Back when I could look at your  and think "these are the right policies "
In my time of need,
You can't seem to see,
Your voice make me bleed,
You're whose killing me

To be stuck in a house, but not a home,
Trapped inside not a shrine, but a tomb,
Imprisoned by the voice that used to be that of ideology and hope,
Which is now the voice of the hate that hangs me like a rope,
The voice that tears my mind in two,
One side screaming "you are wrong," and I should be rejecting you,
The other side creeping and deafaningly whispers I am the infection, adieu.

Depression is masculine,
Happiness is feminine,
Anger is androgynous,
Fear is anonymous.

To see ones self is to hate even more,
To think of one's self is to think of what's in store
Oh, how the body is false,
The mind is a prison made of faults.
Stuck inside as I walk the line,
Forced inside to where the sun never shines.

In the company of familiar strangers,
The type you know like a ranger,
Or that with the spirit of a teenager,
Not knowing or completely identifying,
But still ****** with through consequence and conceptualizing.

Though some take the form of friendly faces,
Others take form like that of a nightmare that makes you walk in paces,
Reminding you of the turmoil inside your mind,
The fight between your perception and what you find,
What you see in the mirror and what you hide behind,
Finding the faces chase you with ideas they do not underpine