Filling that failure,

Which seeps from my open wounds,

from the words I imagine.

 

Tumultous Depression enclosed by the Fiction I live.

A Moody Dispostion discolsed in the following confessions.

 

I wear many faces each lacking a soul,

that begs the question, which me do you know?

 

I long for that which alludes me,

namely Her the Most Unlikely.

 

I cry sometimes.

 

Bitterness and Foul Self Loathing,

when Losing feeling in a dark room,

 

 

 

 

Can you hide me for awhile?