Pain, say some, is a state of mind. I say that it is a mind. For once the pain takes hold of you, nothing can stop it from devouring your essential self. For pain is a form of darkness that can take even the most perfect of people and create from them sunken masses with no true function or purpose. It is an illness, devouring their hearts and minds, creating them as not only one entity but two- themselves and the blade. And the blade, flashing silver is for them the only true feeling they have in this world. For their lives are meaningless to them, and are forgotten in the pain, both inside and out. And they create this pain to give them the feeling as if, for one moment, that they are in control. And though they themselves have no tears, no regrets, the tears of those who love them fall like rain on a battlefield and mingle with their blood.

The rose petals have fallen, and melt on the ground
and who can stop their decent?
For those that will it shall fall
like angels fallen from a heaven.

The pain, pain of being forgotten, left alone in a world where all you want and need is someone to hug you, converges itself in a room, a room where rose petals fall on the floor, mingling with dreams that will never be fulfilled and the tears of those who were foolish enough to love you. And one day, perhaps sooner than we believe, the tears will fall not in the pools of blood that should never have been spilled, but on an early grave, a grave with no purpose or reason, except for one thing and one thing only. Pain.