I used to count the days I cried,
Knowing that they would be infinite,
Dipping into the world of war and grief,
My bloodied hands yearn for their owner.
I've become blind,
To the darkness that encapsulates me,
Into a frenzy of fear,
And millions of futile assumptions.
Turning a mannequin to the world,
Moving forward with flimsy eyes,
Those days when I cry for a reason,
Trying to escape from this treason.
Amidst a thousand cheers,
The resonance of happiness,
Yet a feeling of emptiness,
Of not knowing what eternity is.
The shadows follow me through the dark,
In the darkest times of my story,
Torn and crumbled,
Burnt into ashes by the fire of greed.
Do you know who I am?
Neither do I know,
Neither does the future nor the past know,
Nor does the resentful present know.
The scars mean nothing,
Compared to my conflicted mind,
Every sense that makes us human,
Is no more in me.
If this is what hell feels like,
Then let me rot in heaven,
Provoked by the tranquil beauty of sirens,
And moulded by my meloncholy music.
A/n's note: This poem depicts me. This is the real me. This is not a depressing poem once you know the meaning behind it.
