Lost

Writing

There are no rainbows; there are no more imaginary friends.

No more window panes covered in cold dark steeped drops.

There is only a dream, an empty realization of existence. Hopes and dreams abandoned in the tub of a dark spawned angel bathed in the misery. All that remains are the closed eyes of the needing souls wandering in dreams in search of the truthfulness of their mind’s world. The light of the minds taken away from them snatched away like a blanket from a slumbering adolescent.

No more pretend, no more fake. The realizations of the suffering are all that are real.

Deep lacerations that leak to the soul slowly seep through the blood stream.

All of the beauty lost within the darkness that comes with insanity.

The pressure released away from the shoulders as gentle as the pressure from a lover’s lips.

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