The purest of thoughts are the ugliest in kind
The prettiest of faces have the darkest of minds
It is a fact, or maybe a foul 
But the most hurt of people have the brightest of smiles
While we can't sleep, we shall dream
On thirst and hunger, we shall feed
We are writers, painters and poets
For we are soothed, by the pain we feel
Never hate the crowd, till we need us alone
Never miss the Sun, till the darkness grows
Maybe selfish, or bad in faith
But never pray, till the troubles show
We do understand, but aren't understood
We do feel, what we haven't gone through
Maybe mad, but so very rare
For we can be lethal, but concealing we choose