Tell The Wolves Im Coming Home

In Conclusion - King Kern

Sadness is fickle thing, while it changes it never trully leaves you.
Not once it's ingulfed you into its cold, bittersweet embrace.
My personality is not my own, I am yet but a husk, a shell of the person I once was.
My entire persona is a coping mechanism, made to please the people around me, but it never quite helps me like I hope it would.
Every night I stare at the ceiling, wishing for even a feeble flicker of self to come back to me.
I have not cried for myself in years, only out of sorrow that I can not keep my friends happy by being consistent with them.
I wish I could cry again, not for others, but for myself and the pitiful cocoon of doubt I have become.