Blured vison,
lost sight,
salty tears shinning in the dim light.
Harsh voices calling out names,
unwanted attention from those who just want to place blame.
Young Maidens no longer so pure,
the lost waiting for a never coming cure.
The higher people wishing for death,
The lowwer people letting out thier last breaths.
The Posers, the Wannabe's the Actors wearing stone masks,
the Models the artists the the backstabbers stabing you in the back.
Some days you think you've found the cure,
Death an end to pain and fear,
Only to find the end,
Really. . ,
isn't anywhere near.
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