A Friend...if you call it that.

So uncertain she is, conditioning her pride with the shards of her own words.

So insecure she is, begging for compliance amongst her peers and others.

Trying to be mysterious and strong, but soaking through is blood of weakness.

Out of element, no surprises she brings when admitting her constant jealously.

All she does is fuse to organisms she wants to gain, I pity her self doubt in only one way; understatements.

What does she really want? Praise for the wonder she thinks she displays.

Her revolving sorrow can be resolved by only one thing, her own scene.

M

This whole tiring show is seductively tragic.

A story tale with an ending, yet an empty conclusion.

What a bitter love, one that confuses every thought I have ever had.

It brings me to tears to imagine that this is a constant that I will always try and survive.

I want to explode, to implode all the excitement and doubt that exists inside of me.

To start again with the ninth struggle that I enclose, someday hoping for a satisfying result.

Need is the devil that I actively encourage.

Entertaining all my actions, or lack there of.

We all crave that instant depth, but do everything in our power to swim away.

Existing only long enough to shadow against the walls before you close your eyes.