New Parts, Old HabitsMature

I'm not even sure anymore.

In essence, my problems seem to be:

An overactive mind trapped on stormy seas.

An underactive heart like a hive of sleeping bees,

and Half a dozen voices and none of them me.

Why do you do this? Why do you take this?

You know it won't help, might as well fake it.

You're too far gone, symbolically naked,

To a world that forced you to face it.

And face it I did, peering beyond teary eyes.

I might be hurt, but I'm too scared to die.

So I'll carve a place out, somewhere high,

Where noone can hear, the echoes of my cries.

But if someone should hear, and stifle the red noise,

The horrible disinterest that hides me from the world,

Maybe I'll turn normal, not be sad anymore.

That's kinda farfetched tho, I'm just a broken toy.

 

The End

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