Beaten, alone, broken, unloved.
We walk along this giant path of dark and lonely dispair of forgotten memories, if you can even call those bleeding patches of blocked out light "memories", and a unified terror of the days ahead.
Staring out into the blinding light of "happy faces" and judgemental glances that only we can detect.
We are the fallen; the kids no one cares about, shipped away to boarding schools, locked up in prison cells, completely lost in crazy homes, and somehow, for the lucky ones, sent off to that bittersweet place everyone "sane" fears - death.
Is it really "insane" to want to end your own life?
Why should those who have so seriously injured our souls with their harsh words and uneccessary faces be able to have a say in their future while we rot, stuck in the unending circular prison of our own bodies?
Why can't we die?
Created: Aug 13, 2012ImperfectExpressionism Document Media