Journal 1

The fog clouded the sky and sparked curiosity within me. A little shred of hope that was buried deep Inside me found its way out, past all the tragedies that created these craters In my mind, craters In which I used to suppress my bad childhood. They left me susceptible to depression and rage. It seems like no one understands how I feel. They don't understand that Its hard for me to breathe without thinking about why I'm still breathing. But the truth Is no matter how hard I cry or how I feel inside, I have no one to share my pain with. I wish I had someone who would cry with me, protect me, and lie to me and say that everything Is going to be okay. But my touch scares people away, my appearance does nothing but bring me shame. The colors others use to paint my persona usually are In black and white. Even though I'm much more than the stains, I'm much more than the sky, yet I'm less than the clouds and less than the smudges, I'm more like the rain, even more like the mud that a rain storm produces. But you know what they say, a sunflower can never be a rose. I guess I'm the sunflower who grew In the shade and stayed In my place, never to bloom but never to fade. I am the true cliché. I'm a darker shade than emo , a darker shade of dead. A blacker shade than most, a blackened shade of red. Starving for attention, I yearn to be fed. But my reign of hunger will remain unsatisfied. My thirst for consideration has and will remain unquenched till I'm so dehydrated that my "accidental" scars are what keep me awake. I close my eyes and stare at my eyelids. Words of sadness have been scratched on the walls of my eyes. I always seem to lose myself somewhere between the silence and the darkness. Because I'm a prisoner to my own thoughts, and a witness to my own destruction.