The Echo Of The Asylum
They measure my pain on a scale of their own,
And call it a performance when I bleed alone.
They say it’s a phase, that I’m built of glass,
Waiting for the next dark storm to pass.
"All’s well that ends well," they casually state,
While leaving me locked in a brand-new fate.
?Who could ever leave me? I echo the cry,
But who could stay when they look in my eye?
They claim that they see right through the facade,
Yet label my grief as erratic and flawed.
They called it mental—the cages I bear—
Then wonder why silence is all that I share.
?I carry the embers of souls that have walked,
While they count the seconds whenever I've talked.
They twist every truth till I’m held for the crime,
Absent for my worst, but absent in time.
They wouldn't last an hour where I spent my youth,
In the asylum of expectations dressed up as truth.
?I want to snarl, to show them the scar,
To prove that their words left me marked from afar.
What if it was about me? What if they knew?
What if the damage was meant to break through?
They tell me I’m foolish, that nobody’s made
To anchor a heart that is constantly frayed.
?I try to reach back to the person I was,
Before every exit came with a cause.
I don't want a shadow, a ghost, or a maybe—
I just want a world that is certain to save me.
Until then I sit in the hell they built,
Wearing their judgment, but refusing the guilt.
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