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,

linger on,


against my breast

like some kind of deadly diseases.

My voice always screams

but my hands are empty,


to be filled.

I am

a broken individual


with someone


to take me

use me

love 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.