Old Poetry and Prose

My Friends

My friends breathe sin,

sweat dripping off their chin,

running from monsters that are not under their beds,

but in their heads,

running into the unknown,

beacause it's always better than feeling alone.

My friends are high on drugs and bad thoughts,

unrealistic dreams so their hearts don't rot,

my friends are the kids in the corner,

the ones you call a loner,

the ones who stay up all night,

searching for something that feels right

My friends plaster on their mouths a smile,

as their heads spin something vile,

as spiders come down from their cobwebs,

creeping into their heads,

their earts,

my friends are robots with broken parts.

They lost the file on how to feel,

so they program themselves to not be real,

because what good does it do

when you're always sad little you,

why can't you just never let yourself cry,

why is it so bad to lie?

My friends carve their skins,

drops of sorrow and pain from within,

blood and sweat drips to the floor

they are shaken to the core,

because it feels like it will never end,

that whatever you do you can never mend

the fact everything you do is always wrong,

but my friends?

My friends go on.