i dont feel anything anymore.
when the tears come,
out they just pour.
this is hell if there is one.

let the tears spill,
onto the cold floor they fall.
nothing more do they fill,
than the nothingness they call.

a soft whimper's lilt
does nothing more than meant,
damaged world's tilt,
reveals our lament.

let the tears pour,
more they can do.
liquid discharge of life,
fallen onto ashen dust,
the dirt filled with dna you held,
dispell this world of its rust.

watch the colors as they meld
to create a beautiful path
bundles of happiness
bloom in the aftermath.

what happened to the girl who would always twirl everywhere,
who never truly cared about opinions?
only from the loneliness was she scared.

what happened to the mind sets that we always met?
we always went straight to work, ready with a hair net.

now, im afraid that they're dead.
the happiness from which they thrived was stolen.
their existence only derived from meds.
only an illusion was their golden.

Eleven fifty three.
i can't think, it's getting too close
what will happen in the end,
will it be happy, morose?
i can't function, i can't.
Eleven fifty four.
****,
a minute closer to oblivion,
a minute farther from ascension,
please tell me there's a heaven.
Eleven fifty five.
****, i haven't done everything i've wanted to, i didn't i didn't i didn't
but i couldn't.
i wouldn't.
motivation, where are you?
happiness, you too?
help, i'm still the same little lost girl as i was five years ago.
Eleven fifty six.
i accept it.
death here i come,
Apocalypse, trample me with your hooves.
i'm prepared in not being prepared,
but rather, by being accepting.
whatever you've to offer, Ragnarok,
i'm ready.
Eleven fifty seven.
three more.
three more until this hell is over,
and then I enter another hell,
or heaven.
but there is no heaven for a heathen hiding under a catholic's beliefs.
there is hell for those mentally unwell,
those who have attempted to enter it during life
on their own accord.
i'm just a shell of what i once was,
seeking the same thing i used to be.
Eleven fifty eight.
two.
through all my sorrows,
losses,
and tomorrows,
i fear i haven't learned everything i could have.
flawful, still,
awful, still.
soon i'll just be
still.
Eleven fifty nine.
i'm sorry mother,
forgive me father,
i love you brother,
i have no sister.
to my friends,
farewell,
and to my enemies,
i'll be seeing you in hell.
let's put everything behind, and accept each other, alright?
alright.
Twelve o'clock.
Midnight.

the things we said we'll never be,
i fear, is what i am slowly becoming.
though, now i understand.
i understand how easy it is
to slip into a state like this.
how easy it is to be a "fake *****,"
or ***, ****, a depressed "emo."
i've become what i pledged i would never be,
now i understand why you left me.
you're just like me, searching for popularity,
attention.
we're all just self-medicating for something
we can't quite describe.
sometimes, i wonder,
do the others feel the same things i do?
do they become *** holes to self-medicate?
i suppose i'll never find out.

we buy them
knowing they'll **** us in the long run.
she believes him
knowing he isn't the right one.
he takes them
even though he'll never compare to a thousand suns.
why?
easy.
we need to be happy.
why?
then we wouldn't be alive.
We hold onto that little bit of light,
and forget that looming sense of the dark,
to feel just the teensiest bit right.
the teensiest bit happy
finally putting up a fight.
We hold onto that
to stay alive
even if we know
that it'll **** us
anyway.

all the memories i had,
all the memories we had,
in all the times we've been through,
why are we still sad?
the picture we took last summer,
now it seems too far
why do the feelings linger,
if all they leave are scars?
my feelings wound upon your finger,
my happiness seems drowned,
my self, oppressed,
and my confidence, diminished.
through my eye,
the stitcher's sword,
it halts to a finish,
the final battle cry,
pictureboard.