sneaking into the night
the darkness is a comfort of mine
says the one whose definition of comfort
needs an amendment, instead of just “hurt”
feeling absolutely nothing
no pain, no gain, is that why I stand so still?
I hope that if I mimic a statue enough
but still i scream into the wind
wondering exactly what makes a friend
care so much (so little)
so, so much
repelling’s instinctive, it is what I do best
aside from putting them through every test
and I scream into the empty air–
what about me makes people care
so, so much?
crawling back from a fight
you can’t win against your own cursed self
says the one whose definition of win
sums up to not committing a vile sin
all pain, no gain, is this why I ache with feelings?
I hope that if I sleep often
vanish from this world
time, time, is what I shriek to you
you have no idea what I really do
I steal your dreams and replace them with only me
and what am I but not good enough?
this is what I feel so I rub it in your face
time, time, is passing
and you use it, waste it on me
you foolish, foolish child
I am a thief subtly bringing you closer to me
stealing rags and riches intangible
I am an ineffective excuse for a weaver of dreams and falsities
have you not noticed, already?
have i not stolen enough from you?