The whispers I hear in the light
Are worse than the ones I hear at night.
Panic takes over and I can't breathe.
Anger continues to build as my blood seethes.
Friends are my enemies and enemies are my friend.
I realize this as over my knees I bend.
I may not be a saint but they aren't martyrs.
Behing my back or in front of my face.
They constantly make me hate this place.
Constant glares and ***** looks
Making my temper boil and cooks
Like the meat on the grill
And then make it freeze and stand still.
Wishing my temper were my heart
Killing me is like a work of art.
The whispers grow and grow and grow
But I know they will never leave and go.