My Hands Covered With Dust,
From Molding My Cracked Clay Heart Back Together,
My Chilled Test Tube Full,
From Concocting A Hearty Brew Of Strength,
The Clothes I Wear, Are A Mask And Saftey Pins,
To Hold Myself Together,
When All I Want To Do Is Break,
I Do Not Need An Opinion On My Woes,
Because All Which Fills My Head Is Critisim,
I Do Not Need Words To Heal My Wounds--No!
Enough Words! Words Can Be Beautiful,
But Too Many People Have Been Using This Magic Only To Hurt,
I'm Tired Of Trying To Please Others,
Trying To Appease Anyone In This Hell,
I Have Had Enough Of Telling Myself
Don't Cry, Not Here,
I've Been Doing So Good,
Yet I'm Treated Like I Haven't Been,
Constantly Being Whipped By Venom Covered Spines,
Taking Their Toll--Swimming Through Corrupted Veins,
My Liver Failing From The Poison,
And As I Die In The Weaning Sunlight,
I Am Bitter And I Don't *Care