Across the oceans and the skies, I've searched for angles low and high, some were bright and others dull, but all I'd hoped, could soothe my soul.

The first I'd found was fond of fun, a flattering sort by trade, used her wit and silver-tounge, to steal my heart away.

Her honied words the sweetest lies, ever heard by any ear, well rehearsed and often tried, though rarely true I fear.

I'd like to say, that it doesn't matter what words I use, what stories I write, that I don't lie awake at night trying to turn my broken memories into something, anything meaningful for others to use, so they get a better view of life than the bitter one I got. But I'd be lying.

And I'd like to say, that lying is something I'm not used to, that every word I speak is truer than the last, every "I'm ok." and "I love you." Is a phrase I never knew before the moment it's said, I'd like to say that.
But I'd be lying.

I'd like to say, that I've never rehearsed a fake smile, never been down for a while over something so heartbreaking it left me shaking in a fragile state of mind that drew a line for me to follow all the way to nowhere.
But I'd be lying.

And I'd like to say, that it doesn't matter to me, wether people can see what I mean, that I can put on a smile and tell them "It's ok." like a normal routine, and wake up every day feeling happier than I've ever been, but I'd be lying.

Ten words is just one sentence, no matter how powerful.

Now hope is good and hope is strong, but pain had stayed, for far too long, to see him cry and watch him fall, pain was there, through it all.

This pain he knew, now all too well, had swallowed hope, and left a shell, its brittle make, a jaded shape, left nothing then, for pain to take.

He cursed his name, and others too, because of pain, no one knew, but who could blame, a young mans curse, when dealt a hand, of luck reversed?

To live a life, of woes unfair, plagued by strife, as fate declared, that he would know, the pain of chance, all alone, in circumstance.

To make it worse, no one tried, to hear his words, and soothe his mind, they laughed at him, and mocked his pain, until he lost, all hope again.

No shock then, that he had shattered, weighed down so, by years of pain, though he cared, for all that mattered, no one dared, do the same.

So he gave himself, to all around, in hopes that he, could see them through, the pain they felt, when they were down, as pain to him, was nothing new.

Once taught, the value of self-worth by the worthless.
Once learned, to be a crutch for the broken to use.
Once traded, my own feelings in to feel perfect.
Once gained, an addiction to tales sad and true.

It isn't right, to know pain so well.
It isn't fair, when it can be a friend to you.
It isn't just, to help the broken who fell.
It isn't good, when their stories renew.

All faith you held, in your own worth.
All hope you had, once full and well.
All joy you gave, in merry mirth.
All peace you got, whilst curing ails.

The madness starts, when it's all for you.
This twisting tale, of parasite care.
Given in haste, in hopes to renew.
All promise of worth, in times of despair.

If nothing else, I hope that you can understand.

Be caring, be kind, do not reprimand those daring enough to unwind and tell you of the sorrows they face, because by tomorrow you could be in their place.

Wanting and wishing for those around you to start hearing and listening to what pains you've gone through.

To lend their ears to your words as if everything you've said is like nothing they've heard.

As though you hold the key to the universe behind eyes of despair, and all you need to reach it, is for one person to care enough to hear you.

So that all those near you, may  know peace in getting you through your space of sorrow, and by tomorrow, you'll be there to listen in thier place again so they may call you friend.

There's always a period of change. This blood of ours has a history of grand revolution, if we can't find a solution to our lives, we simply change to be someone else, and who could blame us for opting to run, besides ourselves?

We toss and turn, we earn the trust of those we love, and burn the bridges of our memory. Over night we seem to lose all traces of our former selves, and throw the remains of our old prison cells overboard.

We cast aside the truth for lies, in hopes of finding a better answer than the one we had before. We give ourselves a clever guise, worthy of a king, though jesters we are born.

And who could blame us, besides ourselves for chasing a fools dream? A fact of life, this seems to be, that change occurs constantly.