That black heart beats within that painted chest,
Writhing and coiling inside its pithy cage.
Sensing that there's more than the sorrows of life's test;
Knowing a salve exists for the pain, and fear, and rage.

That death inside that soul? It comes only from inside.
And what will make it whole? You'll never know...you always hide.

That heart is black not for its nature,
It isn't sadistic, callous, or harsh.
The problem isn't what it'll do, or endure,
This sickness lies in its apathetic march.

"Drive on," it says; "Endure the pain; someday they'll understand."
Yet what's to give...what's to get, when you won't extend your hand?

"Strength in numbers" is more than quip,
Masks, more than disguise.
Peace and comfort are given, when asked;
There's no benefit to lies.