I walk around,

in thin, white skin,

broken by even thinner, whiter lines.

No backbone to support my empty skull.

Forcing bloody words past the lump in my throat.

Spiting them out,

trying to create something with a rhythm or rhyme.

Trying to create something beautiful in this fucked up world of mine.

I have no little light to shine,

so I sit here,

trying to be something more than I am.

Forcing together words into some awkward mixture,

of prose and poetry,

of lies and truth.

Thinking maybe someone, somewhere,

would stumble upon my Frankenstein of words,

would be loved by my bloody words.

So now I'm a genius,

so now I'm a whore.

And society is damned,

but isn't that what we are?

Damned by ourselves,

damned by our family,

damned by our enemies.

I was never going anyway from the beginning.

I was doomed to die,

death is just the beginning of the end.

Or is it the end of the beginning?

Do I get a chance?