They can't tell what's wrong with you from the outside. They can't tell what's wrong with you from the outside. They can't tell what's wrong with you.*

Is my illness truly  invisible?
Or am I just deluding myself again?
My thoughts are racing, falling, tumbling,
maybe their right to call me insane.

Don't ask me to speak because I don't want to;
words don't mean a thing any more
Instead I write and write onto sheets of white
into the abyss my heart is poured.

I hear their screams in my head all the time
a pleading in my ear,
I'm the one who's living this hell
so why is it me you fear?

I carry on breathing everyday
despite the creatures living inside
and I will keep living in every way
until one day I don't even cry.