I am, inescapably, alone.

Thankful for the realization of my own nonexistence.

Can you help me? Could you help me?

Grasping towards your warmth makes the cold ten times worse.

Tears and rain are the same except for their temperature; one is cold, while the other is warm. The cold falls from the sky, while the warmth is a trail of humanity, leaking from my eyes.

I bleed tears.

Yet I can't cry.

I give you my insanity plea here, the endless cry of "why", when simplicity has never been one of my skills. Admittance of the truth when all I can tell is lies. The remnants of my sanity and the moments of incapability are caught in a battle of wills, while I contemplate the numbing capabilities of pills.

I hate the poetry. I hate the rhyme, yet all insanity does is wind up and spit out words that slip together like oil and water, seperate yet perfectly aligned in the rule of seperation.

I'm going insane, but there's no question as to why. I'm shut up in my own box and I've sewed myself in with thread of fear and suffering. An artist of my own destruction and loneliness. Yet, I can't help what I've lost, couldn't stop it from slipping away.

Sleep is my escape.

I run away into my own head, going backwards, climbing through the rungs of my neurons, slipping into the abandoned corners of my head in the hopes of never being discovered.

The sunlight peeks in through the windows of my ears, waking up the child who is hiding, forcing it into the front, where it is seen, but not in the spotlight. Waking up has never been so torturous, so alone.

I play the marionette with my own dreams. Alone, they are the master of my thoughts. My blood runs up, or it runs down, depending on the time of day or the mood of the moment. Can I stop the hurt...can I stop the pain?

If I stay in my head, they'll all go away...