A million years with icicles hanging around
my barely thumping organs, lost feeling in every fingertip,
Encouragement rang from everywhere, when I felt nothing.
"It's beautiful," they cried, not knowing it, that I, was a liar.
The moment fire began to flood through my veins,
inside galore, pain throbbing, heart breaking, tears flooding from burning eyes.
Youth lost in weakened bones, weightless humanity, prominent loss.
All tinged with the smell of incense and funeral blooms in empty pews.
I tried to feel something, express what I felt, when I truly did.
When my feelings were the prominent part that I usually hid.
But me, myself, was shot down, and they begged to see that genius again.
The one who lies. Her soul's nothingness; the only thing not sending it downward.
The one with nothing, no one to believe in, not even a lover.
The one who takes the last bottled message that it is possible to adhere to.
"Brass balls."
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