They all see through me,
They are blind to the darkness beneath.
But not even I know what truly breathes in me.
No one is known to the other,
We hide the fact that we are all dead.
I wish to rip off all this skin and say,
I am not so alive... nor happy.
To bleed would be to cure,
In spite of that even, the etchings would not make strive to make uneven
We know beneath our deepes thoughts,
All of this is lies.
Nothing is reality,
We are nothing but insensitive who dream,
And the sorrowful who bleed and kill belief.