Gliding through life,
Like Seagulls in the mist.
Riding that high
As social misfits.

With a considerate twitch
For which we have nothing
Silence remains
As do our pens.

We write of our fights,
Though few believe.
Until all is gone
And we forever leave.

Crying and caring,
Bleeding and breathing,
All blend into
Ever present pain.

They cry for us,
Dry tears.
Standing in sullen crowds
Surrounded by sad clowns.