You're a skeleton,
Made of perfection.
You are one to look up to.
You are a saint.
If someone were to hurt you,
It wouldn't do much damage.
Outside.
But, you fail inside.
A heavy feeling sets in your chest,
By thinking of sensitive topics.
All I've ever known is to be a poser.
Act different from yourself.
It's a identify crisis!
Who do I gotta be,
To please?
I remember blanks.
No one would understand the drowning sensation.
These scrambled thoughts form a rope.
And I hang by the neck,
Over a dark abyss.
Guess.
Or it'll be tighter.
If you're correct, it'll be cut.
I sit on a throne of lies.
Scratch that!
I cry on a throne of lies.
Yes!
I cry.
It's bad.
No worries!
It's a hobby of mine!
