Can someone explain to me
why is it that I can't see?
Why are my eyes
drowning in my fears?

Sleep, sleep, sleep
darkness come to me
embrace me, speak to me
why am I so lonely?

Let me burn in the pyres
I can't stand this cold
let me go, just let me go
please..

A true story of one Christmas Eve,
when I was fourteen.
I remember the gifts under the tree,
some for my brother,
some for my sister,
some for my mother,
but none of them were for me.

I was disappointed, I must admit.
Never liked Christmas Eve,
but since then I hated it.
I asked mom what will I get,
she said: “You'll get that,
what you will get,
go beg on streets!”

And so I did.
It was not my will,
I was kicked.
Remember the day:
24.12.2006
First night I spent
on the streets.

It was cold,
but not freezing,
at least I think.
I had just shirt, jeans, pants, socks,
but no shoes.
I was shivering.
I was lost and had nothing to lose.

I remember the skin,
turning purple and gray.
My mind was set on one thing,
I need a place to stay.
I found some boxes and a blanket,
I didn't mind the smell.
I made my bed near the garbage cans.

Lying there I watched the stars,
cried eyes out,
was asking God,
the only thing I still don't know,
why?
Why was I brought into this life?
Why I can't just simply die?

It was cold,
and it was bad,
but the worst is yet to came.
Forgive them, Lord,
they know not what they've done.
Forgive them, Lord,
because as sure as hell I can't.

I adore you
I lust you
I want you
I need you
I ache for you
But I dont love you

She could never stare, would
Never face that which showed
Despair, it looked back through
All the scars seen but never there.

Beauty was distorted In this
representation of self, Its features
Falsified, an empty reflection
Void of seeing what was truly
There.

She brushed her hair, with eyes
Turned away, not seeing that
Which was denied, which was
her beauty. She only a violation
Of ego of self Loathing in a
Reflection that she never looked
Upon, It was dead to her never
Will she look upon It neither stare.

I have always believed that human beings grew up wanting to be grown
and spent the time when we were wanting to try again
all the time I have known I felt this was true
and coming back to me and you I'll say it again:
life is not lived outside of original sin
and every step I take feels like a mistake
no emo lyricism here
just real fear because there's too much dark in this big broad world for anyone to shed any real light
and without light the shadows creep and crawl
and I can watch the walls but who mans the halls
all night long I wait awake
every blink and every breath I take another reason for me to fear
"major depressive disorder"
doctors croon that like a sweet lullabye
but that does nothing to dry my eyes because what?
I'm not sick, just crazy?
I'm not hurt, just lazy?
I know the pains I feel so deep
if they aren't real then neither am I
I fall short of every sunrise with color but I try
major depressive disorder according to books
(allow me to paraphrase, I can't be bothered to look again)
is categorized by an extreme feeling of hopelessness
and loss of interest and I feel they are lacking finesse
when I am told I am a sad sad soul because the world is grand and wide
and I would invite it all to come inside
but I can't and that makes me sad.
it makes me sad when I see the way people are treated.
it makes me sad and often downright defeated
and when the little flame that keeps this broken heart burning
gets washed out by the darkness of the world awake and yearning
waiting for a moment of doubt and weak
I feel so ******* meek
me, meek.
I feel like the world is collapsing but only in my chest
I feel like an infant in a bulletproof vest getting shot
my skin starts to itch and I can't scratch with my nails deep enough
and son of a ***** they don't trust me with sharp things anymore
and the scores on my arms are the times I have lost
and this battle isn't won and this is hardly a war
this is slaughter, this is me standing alone under the whole wide world and keeping it up
and this is everyone I love looking at me straining and telling me that I'm slipping up
alaska is too far south today, do I even give a ****?
depression is not a feeling of overwhelming sadness
I am not sad because of misaligned cables in my mind
I am sad because no matter how hard I try
I'm told that I am not.
but here I am still trying, standing up from my cot on the floor
and every step outside that yawning door
there are people pulling me back and slinging words that cut deeper than I ever did
and every hand that grasps my shirttails to try and pull me home like a lost little kid
leaves mars all down my back, claws that sink and ravage leaving me ****** and raw
and bleeding open and sloppy all on the floor I keep my pace, like every step will be the last straw
like every step is the last one I need to take to get away
and as I go I follow all the trails of similar blood, refreshed by people like me every day.
and I just wanted to say
I don't give a flying **** what you think you know about my scars
I don't care if it makes you uncomfortable to see my arms, the sun is out and it's 90 ******* degrees
don't lie to me and say I should be ashamed and not wear these badges like good luck charms
don't tell me my survival is offensive to your eyes because you should know without being told
these scars are here to help me grow old
when I needed to remember I was alive these scars
were fresh cuts, science experiments on a corpse brought back screaming "I'M ALIVE"
I'm not ashamed for surviving because if I were ashamed
I wouldn't be.