People say that I'm different.

I see things and hear things not of their world,

But of mine:

Shadows and figures with no physical connection;

Voices belonging to no one

But the nonexistent breeze that kisses my face.

My reality is corrupted,

Poisoned by the pain that drowns my childhood in tears.

My mind is as broken as my heart once was,

The shards tearing through my last bit of sanity as a wall is built around me,

Imprisoning the broken child within from ever having to face the demons of the real world.


I only have to face the venemous creations my pain set loose upon my innocence

Before I even had a chance to fully experience the bittersweet taste of life.

Now, I am forced,

As prisoner of my own unconcious design,

To find ways to escape the nightmare that is my reality,

To experience what others call real.

But how?

How can one be real and the other not?

People say that I'm different.

I don't think so.

I think I'm just like you and everyone else.

But instead of living in your world,

I am trapped inside the prison of my pain,

A poisoned reality,

With pieces of my stolen childhood waiting to be consumed by demons,

With shards of reality piercing through the blackened veil of horror draped across my eyes.


I am not different;

Only broken;

Only poisoned.


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