I just hate people sometimes.

Let's pretend that I closed my mouth to fit in, and all the words were lost behind this facade of a grin. Just imagine, what would my life be like then, if I never chose to scrape a page with a pen. I'd be another silent victim of the world once again. Maybe once upon a time when Wonderland was a place, a physically attainable way to escape. I might have held my breath just to capture the sights, but I never left my heart behind for what's right. But, let's make believe for a night, that I took a knife and offered up my heart to be sacrificed. Let's pretend that everyone was my friend like before and I would never have to chase another tear to the floor. Who would I be then? Would I be someone less or would I be something more? Would I feel this passion that's burning through my heart or would I be as numb as a collection of scars? A saint behind bars, or a lost superstar, surrounded by followers waiting to rip me apart. That life is too large. A victim I am not, nor will I ever be. I've already tasted the scent of recovery. I can't think about the things that smother me. I'm too far ahead. That was the other me. I can't focus on the effects of my faults if I remain unaffected as a result of my thoughts. This is not the way these two paths should be crossed. I have to feel this pain before my emotions are lost. It's the drive and the force. It's the plot and the course. It's the sweat in my palms and the blood on the floor. I can't pretend that I'm okay when I refuse to conform. So I cherish all the pain and use it up like a whore. Drink it all in to spit out on the floor, in ways these fake bastards never seen before. There's something magical to me about reality. There's nothing like embracing your own mortality. I'd never ask anyone to bow down to me. Just stand up for the reasons your heart has a beat, as it moves your blood like a stream that screams until the seams stitched through your dreams come apart by dark means, in ways that collapse your veins and it's too hard to restart when the truth is to blame like a shadow of doubt across every friendly face. It makes you recognize who was there for the pain and that isn't okay, when everyone you trust decides to leave you this way. Open up your mouth with all the things you should say, be the messenger that shoots back with a rage. With a pen and page, splatter ink on the stage, kill off every character that you've ever played because you were a slave, you were deprived so let's be depraved. Let's pretend for real with the no intentions to save the ghosts of our past, memories of the fake. Let's be ruthless with no compassion or regard for anyone that treads on a broken man's heart. But, imagine if I was just another simple mind, oblivious to the world beneath all the lies. I'd be as fake as the next pair of eyes, only opening my mouth to say, "No, no. Everything here is fine." Give me a fucking break...I just hate people sometimes.