Everyone has a story. By this time we are all battered and ****ing bruised.
We’re all tortured artists with more dark inspiration than ink.
Emotionally and physically we all bare the marks of our ruthless surroundings.
Desperately we attempt to grasp some form of control.
Realizing it’s out of reach we’re whipped with the words that eat us inside out like
maggots on a dead decaying body.
A forgotten soul of yet another helpless child that found their
own way out of this hell.
Today our stories pages are all ripped and burned like our dreams.
Control. The word that is so ****ing underestimated.
Don’t kid yourselves, we aren’t the naïve selfish ones.
When you catch us showing blood, using pills as mentors, and having tears stain our corrupted and exhausted faces daily just remember..
You created our stories.