&maybe; we are all empty,
useless and nothingness. To follow suit,
I've grown so irreparably damaged that a thousand cigarettes,
a dozen tiny pills could  do
                                                       ­                                                              no
good to ease the 'average' that we all
are prone to, that the media pretends to abhor. No other
kiss could take my breath the way this does and
now I see what losing
                                                                ­                                                  really
does to me; an imperceptible toll is the thing to tell me truth.
We're all breaking
but we keep it confidential.
Too  many months down the road and
                                                                ­                                                      I'm
utterly­ useless. Fifty pages of attempts at art  are nothing with
the way the average thrive on 'creativity.'
Every hour, I refine and redefine coping as
shying  away from all but rage and substance.
Anyone who touches my skin could say I
radiate the caption 'I
                                                              ­                                                       still
hate You' and I cling to that.
We've always said that hate hurts better than
anything else. You and I have
heard this from eachother, so many thought
through syllables aimed to ease everything that does
not look like reconstruction.

&I; still proudly prove to every pair of ears
that hear me that I do not
and I never needed you
                                                                ­                                                 here.