We ****** ourselves upon labels,
like an acrotophiliac forcing his legs in a beartrap
that just won't close.
As if this world could ever be as generous
as tales and fables.
For every time we let ourselves feel,
we are allowing ourselves to be peeled apart
by those that think themselves better.
For every heart bleeding,
paper cut on a love letter,
we can find enough pain to store away for later.
Pain to share.

Every time I walk out in the world,
I feel pins set on every inch of my skin.
Every time I let someone in,
I'm rarely exposing myself to anything other
than a bull in a china shop.
But still, every time I drop to the ground,
I can make myself believe I've found
a reason to get back up.
Even now, I've got pain.
Pain to share.

In a world built on lies, oil
and the sweat brought from toil
of people overseas,
we can still somehow see an enemy
in who once we called a friend.
Till' the bitter end,
we cry tears like rain,
condensation on the window frame,
but it won't be over any time soon.
We shoot for the moon,
with the hope of landing among stars,
but we find ourselves frozen husks
within an hour of our departure.
Because, I fear,
there was always a reason we had an atmosphere.
But it's not perfect
and these 'exceptions' are starting to fall near to me.
But whether I die right here,
or there,
or anywhere,
I do and always will have pain.
Pain to Share.