Go to sleep. In the morning everything will be okay.
Sweetness in the form of bitter blood cooled to taste. Nothing’s going to be okay. Dry tears can’t fall, horrid truths can be told without heartache and tragedy. Truths that could devastate worlds. But there are worlds within worlds. Dreams are the essence of our world full of tyranny. Yet still a society encourages us to follow those fluttering images, short as friend’s loyalty.
Set me free! I wish to leave and cry, stop being strong and merely dance on waves of impersonal emotion. Faith fades when it should be strong, should comfort when it strikes thunderous terror into those who choose never to comprehend, and merely to ignore all other status of lives. How unlike nature. How unlike decency?
Time has failed me utterly, destroying the cells in my body that hold any will to aid me. People make statements about what others say to see if there’s any truth in it. Could a heart be so cruel? Can love caress a heart often enough to heal it? What is the point to living if I can never be repaired? I am a broken toy! Who ever buys a broken toy? But my question is: What broke me? Time? Friends? Family? Father? Grandfather? Pain of all things? The epitomized pain of a fragile soul dying is ne’er always ignored by the deaf and dumb and knowing and loud. I am lost in the pages of pain and death; stuck between words reading damned, dishonoured, discord, discarded, death.
Letters fluttering around. Sweet euphoria of white paper neatly folded and addressed to multiple unimportant people who feel important because of that envelope now sitting peacefully on a crimson sheet. A sheet that has never heard the lonesome cry of a poor, wretched creature too insignificant to go on. As compared to the innocent white sheet that has often heard her cry. Mine are blue. And alone. Always alone; as I soon will be… forever. Lost in tales of death. Death calls me from this heavy body, tired from sleep with vivid dreams, heavy from use and discard. I could not fly even if I wanted to. Life is now too heavy on my imaginary wings. The collected dust from a decade of pain. I am not strong enough to continue. Bravery holds me back. I can’t be brave enough to take action. I am a hypocrite. Lost and stripped of honour, for which it may never return.

By Suicidal Piety

I became part of the Wasteland at the age of fourteen... at the age of seventeen I decided to write about it. And thus... here I am.