I\'ve suppressed my insanity,
Until it bled from pore to pore.
I sat uncontrollably weeping at what I become,
And endlessly suffered at the things I\'ve lost.
Love would become a stranger to me in this time,
Where self-abusive dictionaries would throw such words as:
Torment
Suicide
border line personality
s c h i z o p h r e n i a

By now the blood had run out, and exhaustion seemed to satisfy.
My heart would not bleed unless I scratched layers of innocence and morality at my mind\'s core.
Only then would it beat violently,
To escape the monster growing within.

Touch is a delicacy I have yet to feed upon.
Comfort is alien to me,
As I have never kissed anyone I have truely loved.
I have never loved someone,
So much as pity them.
I took it upon myself to fix and heal and advise their demons;
I later succeeded, and became bored with perfection.

I need the motivation to do the most simplistic of tasks,
Yet happily oblige to drown in such torments of alienated duties.
Scratching once again layers of flesh in order to bleed again and live;
I starve for oxygen,
As I have yet to breathe.