Hey, you can be yourself,
Yet feeling and knowing deep down to your core that you have the traits of a psychopath.
Everybody can be us, you know.
And we can be everybody.
. . . especially on a sad, cold night.
My heart felt nauseous and sick,
We never needed anyone –
We just need someone who will stick,
By our side when we feel alone.
My whole body felt stone cold,
The scar in my palm remained;
I know I cannot ever sell,
Anything that is a part of me.
I do not know, can words explain this feeling?
I think there was an invisible sword,
In between my stomach and chest.
The truth is,
I was never content with myself.
I was not like him,
I did not do that kind of thing,
But I somehow relate to him;
Still, I was not a perpetrator,
Yet we connect;
Like a red link fastened to each other.
Is it a shame?
When we feel what the lunatic madman felt?
It is not –
It is the truth,
But it is a shame?
When I kind of feel pity for its horror?
And the nicotine swallowed me slowly.
I hope . . .
I do not know what to hope.
What is to hope?
A cold night,
A dead body,
A dead heart.
The rain is not that beautiful . . .
I am not beautiful.
I wish I can ever sell,
Anything that is a part of me.
I do not know, can words really explain this feeling?
