what's beautiful to the eye
purges my imagination,
my exterior so sheek
yet inside I'm only skin deep.
Carve my lies into the mirror,
reflect on more than quaint images of you.
Get past that grey november day,
Because if there was ever a bad day to cast a shadow
and strike an epiphany
curiosity met it's match.
No matter how hard you try,
pretending rendors no more suffering,
numbing became ok.
it would help if you let me scratch the surface
and say what's on my mind,
cuts in character dug up a painful mistake.
Maybe I won't survive a saint,
but lately that would be ok.
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