Come inside
And be afraid
Of this impressive
Mess I've made

If you take a look
Now you will find
I have thrown away my prize
Done away with paradise

See what's going on inside my mind
Please let me out

My head is woozy. My stomach is cold, desolate, and empty. My heart aches for the one whose wounds I cannot heal, that which I cannot mend with a simple and proper apology.

I am confused. I am worrisome. I am... Angry. At anything and everyone. If the saying 'Happy people are so cruel' holds its proper ground, then what point is there in trying to be happy? What is the meaning behind it, and what does 'Happiness' truly apply to oneself?

I sit here, and I ponder over my worries and woes. Why does such a childish, improper, and imaginative emotion such as Happiness have to exist? Why does it linger?

Is it to remind yourself that you are content in something you have accomplished so thoroughly, so thought-out, so... Meaningless.

Come inside now I implore
Do you think you can restore
The crucial pieces missing from my brain

What seems to be the matter dear
Why do you cry and shake with fear
I've only had the best of me insane
Please let me out
Please let me out

When I reflect on the word 'Happiness', I think... That it does not exist. Not for everyone. Certainly not for me. If you are happy, but someone you hold close to your heart is sad, don't you try to unravel the cause of their problems?

Don't you try to fix it? Would you repair that which cannot be repaired, no matter how hopeless it seemed?

What if the damage dealt to them is irreparable? What would you then? Would you still try and help them, even though it is probably just an exalted effort?

Would you go to the ends of this horrible, tar-topped world, and cater to their every want and need? What would you do at the end of the road, and see nothing but a barren wasteland; a deprived, unfertile desert riddled with nothing but dunes, hot scorching sun, and the bleach-white skulls grinning toothlessly back at you?

Would you tredge onward in the sandy wasteland that is of little use to you, honor-bound to fulfill your promise?

So I dream. I ponder. I wonder what will become of those whom have made it their life-long dream to achieve happiness, to know it, to breathe it, to feel it, and then one comes so foolishly along; all in the attempts of crushing that foolhardy dream, stamp into the ground, and spit on it and call it "Worthless"; "Unobtainable".

But I wonder... Is it really so childish as to want happiness?

Come inside now I implore
Do you think you can restore
The crucial pieces missing from my brain
What seems to be the matter dear

Why do you cry and shake with fear
I've only had the best of me insane
Please let me out
Please let me out

I sit.

I stare.

I fidget.

I cringe.

I glare.

I sketch that which cannot be 'Seen'. I draw 'Reality' as I see it: a harsh, unforgiving mistress walking towards me, a cat-'o-nine-tails in her long, fleshless digits, wholesomely prepared to whip me raw, tear away the flesh on my back for disobeying.

Just because I want to be happy. I have never known happiness; I have never experienced the true boundaries of content, of a sound mind and a bountiful spirit, brimming with life. For me such a thing was but a fleeting dream; a tantilizing, succulent forbidden fruit I was never meant to savor, to taste.

Days untold will pass us all by, and you will never ask me how I am doing, if I am feeling well. But I think you know, even if you are not fully aware of it yourself; I am not well.

My mind aches. My brain is throbbing. It hurts to think. My eyes and digits are sore from sketching, and seeing, these damned things that nobody else can see; or maybe they can see, but they just choose to ignore it, for fear of losing their feeble, dirty little minds.

Ignorance is bliss, they say.

"How are you? Are you well?" They had asked of me. I simply stared back at them and replied "Good", and asked how their day was going as well. All the while I wish they were dead and rotting on the ground. But, no. That wouldn't be proper, would it?

I do not loathe you nor do I love you. I merely tolerate you. I cannot believe that I was conceived from your disgusting flesh. Why was I given a second chance at a life I never asked for? If God had been in the correct mindset, He would've let me perish.

Maybe... If there is a God... I'll get to thank him when my time on this forsaken planet expires, but that time is not now, nor in the near future; my death is far, and it will not come until it is the right hour, on the correct day.

So I'll continue with this little charade of mine. I'll continue staring at you, and I'll continue drawing. But not for your sake.

Branded like an animal
I can feel them burning inside
I do believe you have made your message clear

I think I'm losing my mind
Depravating, isolating all that I feel

Leaving me with images I know are not real
Are those words of condemnation that I hear?

Don't know how much I can take
The secret thoughts inside me
Pray to God I've lost what was within me
Oh sweet insanity

This will become a daily routine as I chart out a course on the paved road, leading me further down a forked path of uncertainty.

A part of me wishes I could just wither away to a decomposing pile of saggy, shapeless flesh. Unable to feel anything. No pain. No emotions. No spirit. No mind. No sight. No sense of taste, touch, sound, or smell.

Just... a body. A body with tattered, bloody clothes, and a faceless mask, expressionless.

Another part of me wishes that those whom have wronged others in a manner that is purely unjustifiable, so unforgiveable, that their tormentors would never cease to exist.

I would gladly hand them every poisonous substance known to mankind. Be the surgeon's kind assistant, and grin without feeling down at them and hand every sort of bladed utensil in their masculine, and feminine hands.

However...

I wonder... If this is the real me... The one who cannot hate another, no matter what crime has been bestowed upon her. The one whose heart beats softly, only to flutter and fail for a moment, only to restart itself like a video game. The one...

The one who hates only herself.

My mind has dealt with this for so long that it has convinced me that it is the real me, but now I remain unsure.

Am I really how I depict myself as being? Or am 'I' merely a fabrication of the real me, the one whom I cannot find, lost within the deep sea of despair brewing within me?

I wonder...

My mind lies in tatters, torn between sanity and madness; cut to twain, with the sweet and sorrowful blade.

I wonder... 'Who am I?'

I may have finally lost it. I do not know.

This is a bad sign, my friends.

Now I'll try again to find
The thing that was my mind
Behold the other side
Cause then I've lost my mind
I try again to find

The thing that was my mind
Behold the other side
Cause then I've lost my mind,
I've lost my mind