Its all been lifeless,
The wind in my hair and the rain drops on my face,
They mean nothing.
Everything beautiful now,
Is a reminder of the war within.
Only the good ones die young,
Other wise why is it that we grow up to only break down.
Maybe we are already dead, and greatfully so.
Maybe we're the walking dead, our hearts made of hardened sadness of our souls.
We must be damaged,
Other wise why is it that we have scars on our wrists and thighs?
We work on life for as long as we remember,
Only to be buried in seconds.
My heart is cold and my hands are stone.
I don't feel the life when a butterfly stops to say hello,
Or the leaves in the forest that try to save me, from myself.
We've all grown up to become the poeple, we'd swore to never be.
And when we did grow up,
Nothing was as it seemed.
Devastation broke loose in the skies covering it with the color of cat vomit. Birds left the trees and then the tears broke loose. The day ended with the dying rays of the sun, it refused to reveal any hints of who we had come to become. We stopped believing in monsters under our beds when we learnt that the real ones lurk in the shadows of our past and had built houses in our minds. The demons rioting our hearts reminding us of our ghosts that haunt us at nights, and get to us when we're at our weakest. It took just one mistake to fall into the cycle of eternal pain, no matter how hard we tried to camouflage and change our identities, we'd always stick out like a sore thumb. Now nothing was ever enough and all we craved for now was a sense of security, we found it in each other, and that's when everything spiraled downwards. I felt the wind in my hair as I fell, with no idea of how the impact would devastate me. But surely enough breakdowns ran its course and it was...
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