I've been here so long I've forgotten how it feels to smile.
To not pretend. To not push attention on other's so that they won't see me.
Won’t see who I am. What I am.
The absolute definition of smoke and mirrors.
Years of practise means my mirrors are flawless, each reflecting the person looking into them, a diluted version.
We don’t have anything in common.
And where my persona is the mirrors scepticism is the smoke.
The real me creeping through the unsealed edges.
Just enough to keep it looking realistic.
But lying is no fun unless you get caught.
What’s the point if nobody knows your the worlds best liar.
I'll sit here in my metaphorical corner, becoming a little too verbose for my own good.
A little too introverted.
Hating people that don’t understand.
Loathing people that do.
False sympathy makes me murderous.
Makes me want to strike until I see bone splinters and blood in your saliva.
Then try telling me everything’s going to be alright.
Tell me there’s nothing wrong when in one hand I have a blood stained blade and in the other I have your tongue.
I don’t need a friend, I need an AK47.
I want to be crowned. I want to be forgotten. I want equality.
But the Angels are to busy to see.
Nobody wants to be saved.
This is not a drill. There isn’t a trial run. A practise round.
There is no prize for consolation.
What doesn’t kill you makes you intelligent enough to hide your weaknesses.
What doesn’t kill you teaches you never to show what a crumbling mess you really are.
Over-dosed and Under-rated.