I sleep with no sounds of rest,
powerless and passionless
while I let the phantom of my memory
empty my heart out.
I don't know how the daylight keeps finding me,
or how others say I am still lovable
when I secretly wish my hatred to gleam coldly,
for the world proclaiming it's
everything I am not.
When the roots of loneliness and failure
tie my emotions with unreal visions,
combustion occurs.
I have no place to belong.
Sometimes I need to be a stranger
to not know and see my vulnerability.
There is no demon that will satisfy,
that I can trust my mind with
while I break my senses apart
in counterfeit sleep.
My happiness should not depend on
the weakness of how I feel,
for I cannot hand over the seeds
I sow with,
to every passing hour
I waste in the addicting silence.
