Sentimental person, stars in your eyes and longing in your heart.
Looking everywhere but within, broken. Sentimental person, lost and stolen.
Leaning on a falling shoulder, drowning in another man's tears. Everybody running, running from you.
Always knew you were pretty, but never truly understood your beauty; your worth tossed aside like an old rug or blanket.
Never stepping back, never taking a breath, your worn out body on overdrive. Spending your days in a psychological prison, a suicidal mind; a deadly master.
Walking with armored shadows by your sides, defending you from adulation and affection. Much like a wealthy man in an infamous alley, the territory of an infamous criminal.
A daily shedding of tears. The hot waxy tears of a candle rolling down your charred cheek. You continue to burn alone, ever surrounded by darkness.
Always reaching out for others, until your arm is ripped off, now you're limbless; disabled, stuck in the mud.
A waste of space, according to your unjustified terms, a lonely species that serves no purpose.
Fearing yourself, hiding yourself and disregarding yourself. Labeling yourself as a burden to others.
Ghostly smiles and ill-suited facades, eyebrows dragging themselves towards the earth's centre.
A body-builder's weight on your soft-jointed feet, the mass of your lonely misery strapped to your fickle ridge.
Being used; you in exchange for your acceptance. Clinging to past love because your present has none.
Enduring the pain of stationary motion, going nowhere fast, constantly crashing into tragedies, repeatedly ramming into heartbreak.
Walking with cracked and bleeding soles, like an American Slave, whip marks on your back, a result of self-induced punishment.
Every wake is unwanted, everyday painful. Living for you, is like sea salt on a new born wound, only it never seems to heal.
Your body taken over by plaguing parasites, under your own toxic control. Forced to walk to the beat of a tormentor's drum, your tormentor, you.
Your tongue removed, unable to express yourself. Even in the tongue's presence, pain forces you to keep your mouth shut.
Nearing the Precipice, afraid of jumping, but desperate to be hauled off. Anxious to fall into the river down below, the River of The Dead, where, in your hopes, life is happier.
Your wrists and chest like sliced beef, every tear drop accompanied by the unwilling swipe of your razor blade. The redness of your being splashed onto the floor, then wiped away before anyone notices.
Hiding in a thorn bush from your predetermined destiny, each day comes and thorns dig deeper into your blue skin. Thick needles that you've become physically immune to, thick needles that still emotionally hurt.
Sharks further below circle around your tasteless body, patiently waiting to change you, rearrange your features, devour you for their own satisfaction.
Plebeian people disguised as friends, they show passing interest in your melancholy, your sadness is what they will soon forget.
Wandering and stumbling in a plain white plane. No colour, no sound, no mercy, no gain. Trapped in Dysphoria. Trapped in a worm hole, eternally alone.
Forever falling into a bottomless pit, a hole reserved for the undeserving. But unlike other times, the rope let go of you. The rope that you clung tightly to, the rope that gave up on you.
One tone played on your broken piano, dysfunctional instrument. Your second chance stolen from you, your body deemed as junkyard worthy and thrown into the jaws of a junkyard dog.
Your mirror image distorted, visions clouded, unrecognizable is your face and your pupils, a vacant shell where your soul once hid.
Relying on heavy drugs after heavy drinking becomes ineffective. Heavy feet, a heavy heart, heavy burdens, heavy sadness.
Given a useless name by those who never knew you, forced to go by it, forced to go by them.
Your sweet pink lips hiding, behind them, bitter secrets. Secrets that you've become too ashamed to discuss even with yourself in the darkest night.
Cut short by the knees, not given a chance to run like the others. You've no choice but to let the storm cloud rest on your soft-haired skull. And when the cloud releases its rain, the drops are sharp like daggers. They shock and stab and hurt like the truth.
Your teeth white and pure, are the prison bars that trap you inside you, your smile is now your limited daylight break, a breath of barely fresh air before returning to your forcible detention.
Sentimental person, wallowing in your pitiful emotion, an undesired sensation that seems to follow you physically.
Emotional person, more valuable than you think; more exceptional than you Know.