A/N: Again with the self-despising drivel. I apologise once more. This doesn’t even scan okay.

Feelings; meanings; less

Look at him, sitting on his haunches in his room

Surrounded by people, all alone in his home

Poisoned by criticism and self-doubt

Feeling ensuffocated, lost his way out

Fighting for freedom, trained into traps

Mourning the self-autonomy he lacks

Begging futilely for some sort valve

Pathetic and narcissistic, so self-absorbed

Throwing thoughts through his head is like

Running through walls

He knows he’s manipulative,

Accepts he’s insane,

Doesn’t see what his ‘non-friends’ are trying to gain

Sapping his lifetime

Drinking him down

Selling his self, talk by talk, pound by pound

Feels like he’s screaming and hurts to be heard

But he hates the attention and can’t deal with words

They want his acceptance; though why he can’t say

When he gets annoying, they put him away

Like a toy on the shelf, cause he just gets too much

An overload, handful, manipulative bitch

Deceitful, terrified, traumatised, used.

When he wants some leniency, he is refused.

He knows they all listen, is not sure they hear,

Feels sick to his stomach when their help disappears

Leaving him standing in his storm all alone,

Even though he has caused it, he’s not the only one.

He helps them with problems they see in their head,

So they don’t use their eyes and see that he’s dead

He’s tired of trying and being left out

He wants to be seen without having to shout.

He’s shallow and praises the sound of his voice

He acts likes he’s pinned and hasn’t a choice,

Like he’s bad off and hurt like a marble unscrewed

Can he hate his poison and yet love it too?

(A/N: This is a free association piece... or something. Don’t worry about, who said poetry had to rhyme?)

Demented Ramblings

The black flowers that trample over the red roses and the blood that flows from our veins is thickly incoated in zinc and other precious metals like the beating of a heart in an enclosed room in the back of your head where the knife flashes dimly and the crows scream their agony to wolves in red clothing like crimson rivers flowing from flesh covered twigs of the trees that feed us the need to succeed and life is unbearable especially when there's no need for you and you can't see where your going without thinking about where you're going and it gets confused in the end by words that make no sense and birds that don't fly like hearts and souls and other such rubbish so no one believes in that kind of thing anymore doom us all to survive a hell made up of people and other people's people is a just hell