They keep themselves alive
Just to die more everyday
In a world that will not listen

Able to be pulverized by mere phrases against them
Able to be fragmentized by even that of themselves
Their lips , their skin , they taste of sin

And their eyes become the looking glass
In which only reflecting that of the ****** past
Conceived in poignant everlasting despair

And when their dreams have come to end . .
With what do they fill their emptiness ?
With what to they but their happiness ?

To fragile to exist
Disciples of this game
Choking on depravity.

No love , No loss