We bandage our tender hearts with cast iron strips,
constricting the blood flow to our faces,
pale skin with a waining zest for life.

There is an extra shelf in our closets for home-made masks,
the masks are poorly made
and our true pale skin can be easily seen
through the cracks in our bright coloured ornaments.

It's a **** shame about our cut up hearts.
If they could heal instead of hide,
then dreamers would be the true world changers,
and love would be a possibility for us all.

But our cynacism imprisons our weak minds
in dungeons of hopelessness and pretentiousness.
Our talk traps us through regurgitated drivel,
we talk **** with loud uttering
as if our **** holds in it the secrets of the universe.
Yet in the mean time-
the very words we think will protect us from this wild wild world
expose us as fools and make us soft tarkets-
propelling us further into loneliness.

At least we live in the delusion that we are now all grown up.