I'm so tired, sick of trying when all I feel now is a complete sense of exhaustion with no satisfaction. With depleted energy you still expect me to go on, knowing full well how much I'm hurting. For I live on the verge of sleep, just out of reach of something fantastical yet vulnerable, forced to face what you call 'reality'. My dreams are the key to my truth whilst my life is in fact a lie. You can't know me without torturing yourself with my insanity. So, bite down until you draw blood just so you can realise, they weren't lying when they told you I was poisonous. You'd do well to understand that for your own sake; some things should remain undiscovered – untouched.
YOU ARE READING
Lachrymose
PoetryLachrymose /ˈlakrɪməʊs,ˈlakrɪməʊz/ adjective tearful or given to weeping. A collection of amateur prose and poetry illustrating the inner turmoil. Mainly a dumping ground for loose thoughts and ideas to be interpreted in whatever manner.
