Reality

She’s alone and upset; nothing good can come from nothing, especially when it’s hidden in her musty dresser drawer.

Left behind, she has nothing to worry about, except for how to take her life.

Closing her eyes, the rain of nothing beats down upon her, the thin red lines adorn her body, it’s not suicide, and it’s a decision. Hoping for something more,

A new life, a new song, nothing new anymore, there is no relief where her feet do not touch the knife.

There is no clouded storm called perfect, it’s all polished marbles, too good for her and the pale translucent skin.

The car is gone, the voices brew, just like a coffee in black, there is nothing that you can see through.

She is dead, but only inside; there is no excuse to pretend for real that there is no blood stains on the tiled floor.

Biting her lips, somehow, it’s beautiful, a scenic value that can only be taken by those who really cry.

What does she feel when everybody that there is nothing more for her?

Wham!

Slam into the wall, embracing the wholeness with reality, no faulty perfections here, just a cracked arm and bleeding nose.

All sweet sin, rushed to the point of no desire, bloody blue eyes, almost putting down her invisible life.

Rejection was never a crowd, just a select few that decide to spit acid on hells atmosphere.

This is the cause for nothing, yet somehow meaning everything in the devils almanac, sheer delusion, caused by something all too familiar.

End it all, into the ice burg fire, swim underneath the sand, suffocating from the oceans depth.

She’s not dead, only alive on the outside, burnt out inside her skin, it’s all proof.

This is life, life is reality.

Face it,

Reality is fucked up.

Godchild