high on streetlights. cool wind and cold silence don't go together. i need to talk, but it might go wrong. i have to be aware, i don't want to. feels like i'm working, every second. i want to be me. i thought everyone knew "me" as the person i know as "me". boy, was i wrong. its hard to apologise when i'm screaming out in my head. its hard to smile when i have a knife in my back. if it doesn't kill me, it only makes me stronger. but why do i feel weaker with each passing day? because, i'm breaking down, and i can't do much about it. i need a pair of strong hands to lift me up, so don't beat me down. and then again, i find myself staring out at the moon, and painting a mental picture of a happier day. 22 years, and that wish of being happy hasn't been granted... yet.

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