Life is a strangling hand
A dusty road that leaves
specks of brown dust in eyelashes
Stains on ruddy cheeks and sleeves

The past pinches like
a lobsters' black claw
The path towards the horizon
has thorns that lash like strange jaws

The now is a tide of color
washing in and out
like breath in the lungs
twisting green and quickly draught

Alone with my thoughts. Unable to move or thrive outside of the walls that confine me. As my mind slowly decays, I look to the past. I think of what once was and what our world has come to. As some members of society try to survive, others are living the life of luxury, keeping to themselves, enjoying their life while others are dying. They will never understand what it is like, to be the one on the outside, looking in.

She's an artist.

A painter to be exact.

Connecting darling dots along her veins.

She's an actress.

The Queen of little lies.

Her best performance is to herself, pretending everything's alright.

She's the guardian.

Stashing away all the pain.

She puts it in a box never to be touched again.

She's all alone.

She sits in heavy silence.

And never speaks a single word.