I have told everyone about those strange miss-matched shapes,
That litters my skin,
And tell a tale but I make sure their words are twisted.

No one needs to know the pathetic truth,
The little tale, that repeats back to me, "Your unwell."
That's fine by me; as long as it doesn't come from someone else.

I am still incomplete; still not well enough to look myself in the mirror.
Lacking the focus, to understand that I should be disappointed.

I have tattered the skin upon my body with purple and blue.

This dotted bruising I should feel ashamed of,
But I can never convince myself to stop or be disappointment.

The gently miss-match, unhealthy color to the tone of my skin,
Tells the tale's of my self-hatred and rage,
And all the unwell thoughts that dance around my mind.

I have nothing to say,
So I no longer think before I speak,
Everything drips out before I can calculate.

"How does one act?" I wish to ask,
But I know I'll start another predicament,
I no longer want to be told, "Something is wrong,"
Because I know something is missing.

I'm not tired anymore, but I still feel half full, or is it half empty?
Laughing has come more easily, but I wonder if its still fake.

"I am better," I think how ironic that is, because its not entirely a lie,
But its not true either because something has been misplaced.

I wish to ask my friends, who am I?
But that may confuse them,
So I shall never ask my questions.

I know that a piece of who I am is gone,
But I have no clue where to start the search,
So I'll keep going, never being fully complete,
You never know maybe I'll be fine in the end.

I would rather be somewhere else,
Rather not feel so 'alive,'
I would rather curl up and die.

Sometimes I am afraid,
But most times I am just tired.

The world doesn't seem like my place,
I quite tired of this chase,
I no longer wish to find myself.

The body that I was placed in is now hollow.

I am shallow, after all I am a human being,
Not able to sympathies anymore can only play the role of 'me,'
No longer sweet, or the gently soul that everyone knows.

I wouldn't rather be a other,
I can never fix myself into this world,
So its best if I slowly lose myself and leave.

I'd rather fall into a deep sleep and continue dreaming.

Pounding onto the drums,
Acting dumb for the crowd,
Asking to be a little less proud,
And understand that we're all ****.

Hatred consumes us all, it comes so easily; its almost a gene of its own.

Painful truths and lies shoot us all down,
Everyone is bleeding out and trying to breath,
Everyone is falling from highs and trying to catch the prize.

The skies are covered in dim lights,
Telling the stories of those who lost hope in their dreams.

Everyone is being run down,
The guns are useful tools to pierce a person,
Words impeded in them, and once it hits you there is no turning back;
Your permanently damaged mentally and physically.

The painful truth about us; the 'Human race',
Is that we are all are the monster under neath the bed,
The skeletons inside our closets,
Ready to hunt us down and consume everyone is sight.

We are own parasites,
Every judging thought that turns into a spoke word,
Has already infected someone, and grown,
The rippling effect already taken place.

We are the demons that steal away another's child,
Damaging beyond repair,
Polluting their minds with pure hatred.

We destroy own another, our own loved ones, and random strangers,
That is the little bit of painful truth.