I Set Myself on Fire Over the Stupidest Things

Again, the silence is agony.

Again, the silece is agony. There's only whispers in my mind. They speak of easy times, of when I was a child.

I need not speak, of worse than these. For the tales have been spoken, screamed across the continents.

The dark, it trickles in, as if the rain had settled, as you follow it down the panes. A reflection of your face.

But distance is arrival. Differences in the same. What's life without quarrels? What is meaning behind pain?

My feet are tired of running, yet I cannot give up my fight. Too long mistreated, abused, misled. I will not stand for it.

My mind yearns for blades and bullets, a never ending cycle. A deadly disease that I cannot escape. There is no safe haven.

Sensitivity is not a burden anyone would accept so, repeatedly, my life is on a pedestal.

I am not meant for love.
I am not meant for life.