And the scars you call sovaneirs that mark your
arms and haunt your dreams.
The canvas tattred at times.
belongs to a tortured artist it seems.
Beatings breed the monster none will ever know.
Cast into the emptyness as a child.
Cries fell apon deaf ears screams in need of a direction
to go.
No photos or memories past do I
tressure.
the outcast understands the truth.
And does reside with the pain of plessure.
And the wicked will always find.
A subject so innocent.
For the weak are always left behind.
Blood apon the hands secrets eat at the soul
like a cancer.
Insanity has no reason.
Questions are asked for which i have no answer.
From chaos ive risen to bury that ghost.
Taken a form of a clown.
trapped within a prison this shell is but
a tempary host.
underneath the laugther it always does exist.
Passed of in conversations
Im fine I always insist.
It's no worry it's only a part time
lessure.
In the emptyness of my darkend soul.
I know the true pain of plessure.
just a older darker write I had sitting around i write tons of dark things
just feel there not that good but i still love writting them anyway