Spin on past, and knock me down. On the ground, is where ill bare my face. My true self without this mask.  Walking past dying trees, snow falling gently on my face. Look at me then, and you shall see, there is really nothing more to me. A hollow shell, numb from his past, an empty vessel, who will just pass.

My poems are sad, yet they make me glad, they bring me joy. I mock you and your actions and it makes me content, with how you left. Broken down, in my weakest state you sent me the pictures, revealed your true face. Blame myself, but truly it's you, wish for the best for the pair of you.

Your constant search, are you not tired? Can't we just try. These little whisps of optimism will sure be my death, these little whisps of optimism, always come to an end. A screeching halt, a sudden turn. To the dark and for the worst.

Nothing I answer, as she sighs and looks away, but if i were to say what is really on my mind, you probably would not see me again.

It all comes at once, it never stops, my mind is like the station, my feelings the trains.

                                               Rush hour is infinite

I find comfort in being sarcastic, for it tricks my brain, and my feelings towards you. Like a black tarp, sarcasm covers my heart, and lets nothing sting. But that is not true. For this tarp is torn, my heart is sore, and I cant lie, to feel less blue.

I looked in the mirror, I was greeted with your face in place of mine.
Who have i become, accustomed to feel numb. For i am happy now, knowing your regrets. Do i find joy, in whats eating you alive?
That cant be, that is not me. Suffice to say, my knuckles are bloodied and the mirror is not intact.