Theirs a mask chipping away at my skin;
the flaws are just to painful to feel.
My childish anger
is no longer
something that I can fall back on,
against my breast
like some kind of deadly diseases.
My voice always screams
but my hands are empty,
to be filled.
a broken individual
to take me
whatever can fill this hole inside of me,
and milt the frozen oceans of un-healing sorrow that flow within my veins.
I can convince anyone
that I'm happy
or that I'm sad
I just can't convince myself to do something about it.