It's hard to be lighthearted
When you hold the strings to pull
Your entire world down,
In hands that shake with tremors from too many medications
Too many years ago.

But still,
I prevail when I see your smile
Over the storm clouds
That loom over my head
Daily.

They call it an illness,
A sickness,
Some that you can "catch" or develop,
And some that you're just born with.

People call it being broken.
That's why people act different.
No, don't take it back.
It's okay.
I don't want you to.
It hurts, but that's the truth.

Humans have a tendency
To be able to sense danger,
And those with hearts
Can almost smell the blood that stained your hands,
From a wound that's long been closed up.

And every now and again
It itches and I scratch at it,
And it tears back open.
Keeps the scar fresh,
With big, bold, iron scented "DON'T TOUCH" red warning letters,
I guess.

And I have these dreams,
Not so much anymore,
But I used to,
Where the world was on fire,
And I caused the burning.

I had these dreams,
Now not so much,
Where I was fall into nothingness
And swamp water
And the last thing I saw
Before my descent into madness
Were electric eyes,
Constructed of galaxies and bits of expired universes.

And I felt this hatred,
This deep burning rage,
Because I had no idea
Whose they were,
And why.
And I hated that they made me feel vulnerable,
And safe.
I've never felt that way outside of a dream
Before you.