A world apart, a world alone, no one can even know how different I feel. I'm not real skinny, I'm not real pretty, or at least that's how I feel. I have some friends, and we're all close, but even then they can not begin to understand the difference. They accept me for who and what I am, but I can not. I hate it how my body can't just work right, how nothing goes as planned. I heal too fast, I heal too slow, my pain is eminent, there's no where to go. My face is fine, my arms are scarred. Some me, some him, some years apart. My legs are wrong, them I never show. A battlefield hit with mines, never right. My chest and back, are covered in scars, my stomach too. All this surgery, what do you do? I'm tired of going under, I'm tired of the knife. I'm tired of the nurses, and I'm tired of my life. I'm tired of being different, of being looked at as the fool. I'm tired of being misunderstood, I'm tired of not being “cool” enough. I take release in my art, but even that can't help. No matter how many lines I draw, or words I write, they can not stop this internal fight that is forever a raging tempest inside of me. Some nights a torrent of silver tears pours from my dark eyes, but no one can know, and will never know why. I know one who might understand. I call that person my best of friends. Not the absolute, but close enough. Hugs and cuddles and all that stuff. They're there when I need a good talking to, when I need to vent. When the worst of me pops out, I think of them to soothe my tired soul. A world apart, a world alone, I feel crooked down to the bone. We aren't alike, I and everyone else. I want a hand to hold, even just as a friend. The one who knows, and understands. I need them now, I need them here. And though we may never be together, I've always felt that way, though I remain silent in the painful silence that surrounds my bleeding heart. This friend is the one I need to see, my other half I need to be with. Not in romance, not in love, but in empathetic understanding of the curses that pour down from above. I know this person fairly well, and read this they shall. Perhaps they'll know of whom I speak, and from there we can condole. But until that day, I'm stuck alone with my tired, unhappy soul.