Up down, around the bend, around this and above that explanations used and given at random with no thought or process. Hiding beneath all the lies they can't stand what they say nor do, actions speaking louder then their words.
Deep bleeding wounds with bile for blood pouring forth, they can't help it but its true who they where or have been is gone. Keeping inwardly bound by their own pain and brutality of passion they walk through crowds melding into the back ground instead of standing out.
Barely able too control and contort to whim their fancies each would they gather as the inner being turns into a shriveled pile. How can they beat this illness? Screaming outwardly at the world while resonating his own pain in his skull he battles through it day to day.
Cooled by his own torments his passion, zest leave him readily day by day. Realizing his own demise his tar stained tears streak his face at night; all poison keeping him at bay from his own truth. Give up. Let it control and use like a dulled weapon. Let the passion escape. Let your life fade away. Maybe it'd be best, but how is one to know when they can't seem to let go?
Vocalization is powerless again such a burden. The only help found is the weak ones laced in between strong words, pass by our lips as a placebo in hopes it confuses us.
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