Thursday, November 15, 2007

Not A Thing To Me

You're so sick of that fool,
You're sick of that place.
Sick of the lies
They shove in your face.
You hurt, quite quietly
In your personal hell.
A needle, a blade
To your empty shell.
It's the only way you feel release,
One too many, not a big feat.
Enough to make you at ease for awhile,
Enough to just force on that smile.
You hurt, quite quietly
In your personal hell.
A needle, a blade
To your empty shell.
You hurt, you bleed.
Pain is just what you need.
Just enough to make you smile.
Just enough for a little while.
Look in the mirror,
And what do you see?
All of the broken up peices of me.

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