silentxrainxdrops

What better way to          [e][s][c][a][p][e] those dreadful emotions than to blot them out with something a little more...      bearable. The red feathers are really quite          b.e.a.u.t.i.f.u.l. The way they blossom, the way they fan out on the underside of my arm is really just a form of... art. The way they          {s}{a}{v}{e} me from myself and keep me from losing control is the root of this beautiful... destruction. I know I am slowly wasting myself and

I've heard so many people tell those who suffer depression to just 'cheer up.' I wonder if they can really believe that it's that simple. Depression isn't just sadness. It is emptiness, it is misery. It is pain and nothingness at once. When you are truly depressed you lack the ability or will to cheer yourself up. No one just 'has depression.' You suffer from it. This is depression: You will wake at 5, 6, maybe 7am, feeling as though you had only just fallen asleep. It's likely you did. If you don't have to be somewhere, you could lie in bed for another 3 hours...too tired, too miserable and pathetic to crawl out of you bed. Or maybe you wi

When I was a teenager I had some photos of women I considered beuatiful/sexy inside my drawer. My aunt found them and told me: "You should get rid of those photos or else people will think you're gay" The way she said it made me feel guilty, ashamed and afraid of people find out the truth that I put those photos in a bow and burned them.

I imagine it.   I should clean that knife. Run water over it. Put a dish towel in my hand. Run it across to dry it. "Accidently" make the blade the part that runs over my palm. Blood gushing out. Knife falling. Staring in shock. Maybe screaming. Maybe having to go to the doctors.   I imagine it.   How would my family react? My friends? Do I really care how it makes them feel?   The image won't leave my mind. I don't understand. It's not like I have much of a desire to do that to myself.   So why do I keep thinking it?   I imagine it.   In the shower, holding my

Some promises just Can’t         Be             Made Because we all go home At night and we all lie In        The             Dark Where there’s no-one to save us And you can’t hide from yourself So the paper heart rips and the Painted        Smiles             Fade

alone, we all wander the same desperate streets, searching for meaning between the cracks in the sidewalks and hope in the smoggy skies that choke out the stars. walking the same streets all alone, we're trapped in our hunt, forever to look for love where there isn't a drop to be found. the car horns barely shake us from our dreams, walking like the living dead through hollow worlds everyone is dead in this city. everyone here bleeds. and even though there are thousands searching for the same exact things, we all feel like there's nobody there to hear us.