Descent

Dear day of my dying. Is it ever ending?
Thoughtless. Hopeless. Descending.
And no one ever remembers the crimson cries he carried.

Painting on a face that you hope is waterproof and at the least blood proof.
Distorting their view of what they thought they never knew.
Placing yourself behind warped glass and they never know.
Always holding something back.
You pride yourself on honesty yet morally you know you are a lie.

Dear day of my dying. Has it yet ended?
Worthless. Careless. Descended.
And he could always justify the crimson clots he carried.

Denying walls of concrete the stability they never could promise.
And you never admitted that the torture was self-inflicted.
Broken baby boy would you please exhale.
Those lips of yours do open for a reason.

Dear day of my dying. Will it ever end?
Hopeful. Careful. Descend.
And he learned that crimson can't be carried to the grave.

For anyone to say you will be just fine is not up to them.
The sleepless nights and eat less days do not belong to them.
Only you can pull yourself onto the ledge that falls to nothing.
And walk away. Walk away. Use the one useful thing they have so painfully taught you. And walk away.