A human like you is always at fault. Always is. You play a strange game of sin and regret, Neither willing to give up on you. Oh, the pity…
Insanity is a hobby, a self-inflicted curse. Bruises delight you.
The blood that turns to red mist. Wounds heal, but you do not. No wonder, though.
Smoke till your lungs start bleeding, and you carelessly wipe it off your lower lip and light another one. How can you touch a soul that is already broken into tiny smoke particles?
I know what goes through your mind when you look down from the 21st Floor. I do. You don’t care when People mock you when you say all artists are a bit of nut cases.
The strange arrogance is hovering in your silence. ‘They would never understand’ you say out loud in your head.
O how the mighty think.
You don’t look surprised.
Neither am I.
