I'm used to myself and not getting help because I'm way up the
shelf and none of you can reach.
I try to talk, I break the walls that build up again so no one can breach.
I set my moods on fire so I can say that I'm not tired,
so I can say that I'm fine and I don't cry sometimes at night.
Funny how I water down the frown forming on my face,
set my lips to a sincere smile and it's the best lie I don't have to say.
People surround me and they laugh too, but they're all corpses designed to look like clowns:
watering down their frowns and putting on a facade of youth and energy.
I know they're tired, too.
I know they too suffer from the same pretense I have to go through when I'm not being me.
I'm not the only one dying inside.