Your heart bleeds, so you write, stabbing the paper with your pen of steel, with ink of crimson blood.
They read. They hurt. They weep.
They turn the page. They move on. They forget.
And you are forgotten, too.
But your heart still bleeds…
Your soul distorts, so you dance, hurling, spinning and soaring the pain away with the grace of a dying empress.
They observe. They muse. They cheer.
They shiver, they sympathize, then step away.
And you are left crouching on the ground,
Your soul still distorted beyond repair…
Your sanity is in agony, so you paint, slashing the canvas with the sharpness of your brush, smudging the blood with colour.
They focus. They theorize. They appreciate.
They discuss. They look away. They disperse.
And you are left standing there, naked, barren, void,
Your sanity is nowhere near peace…
Your skin exudes suffering, so you sing, screaming in affliction, pitching at extremes and filling the atmosphere with stagnant monotones.
They listen. They flinch. They ponder.
They reminisce, then lose track, then fail to remember,
While your screams are still ringing in your ears
And your skin grows immune to healing…
This is how I live, in futile awe-inspiring expression.
You muse, you appreciate, maybe even applaud,
Then you leave me here amidst the chaos of myself.
I do not do this to entertain you.
I do not do this for your pleasure.
I do it because it’s all I know…