No one knows,

nor will they ever understand.

How can I expect them to?

I have performed the so-called unheard
of,

covered by my skin of blackness.

No other being will ever begin to understand

the depth; the magnitude of melancholy

that is felt.

So many times, unhappiness has hit
me in the face with a wooden bat.

It has shattered the hope of wisdom

that I had for myself.

So many times, my hands have shaken
with fear,

and they called a knife their home for
so long.

For so long, my head has flashed voices in front of my eyes,

and visions in my ears.

For so long, my heart has desperately
longed to clench onto someone else;
it has longed to be known.

For so long, my pillow was my hugging partner,

my shoulder to cry on and absorb my tears.

For so long, I have awaken from my war of a slumber in these mornings,

wanting these days to end instantly;

wanting to close my eyes again,

so that I don't have to face the world
that surrounds me.

I wish they knew.

I wish they understood.

Yeah, my walls are thin - paper thin.

You seemed to have noticed that about
me and my broken spirit on your own.

If only you knew what I struggled with.

If only you knew about the emotions

that are still searching for

those last few leftovers from their

previous clashes and breaks.

There's no understanding.

Even if my mouth decided to be revealing,

they wouldn't even begin to understand.