I could paint with pens,
Or draw with blades,
A thousand ****** pictures,
Of a thousand ****** days.

I could sing with footsteps,
Or scream with pain,
For the end of hopeless torture,
For the end of hopeless days.

They don't know how it feels

to awake every morning,
and all they can wonder is
why they had even awoken

They don't know how it feels

to pick up all of their pieces,
and put them back together
but still feel like they're broken

They don't know how it feels

to say all that they can say,
and still feel like there's more
but every word has been spoken

They don't know how it feels

to go to sleep every night,
and the only hope they have
is that their eyes will not open

©