The troubled soul beneath the sad, the lost, but the stunning eyes, looking for true answers in the dark scudding sky.
The false smile, the pretend laugh and haunted vile dreams.
Abandoning hope is of course an option, flick it away like an unwelcome fly.
If only I could scratch away your pain and anger; like an itch can be resolved in a moment.
I know how it is to simply walk, or rather scuff along; a rugby scrum with black angels.
Blood red demons, and their perpetual screaming, from every available corner, from every hollow chamber of filth.
Stone steps, padded walls, high, unreachable windows. Panic stricken, manic anxiety and utter depression.
I can see how cold it is for you, despite the sweating out of scolding hatred.
Close those wonderful eyes;
take a long, deep breath,
be comforted by the thought,
the uplifting feeling,
that there could well be a light,
at the end of your suicide.