Thwump, thwump, thwump.

All Lovino was doing was staring at the ceiling. (It's blank, so blank like a fresh page ready for the ink of a pen...) The room was quiet, enough that he could hear his own heartbeat loud and clear. There wasn't a single sound throughout the house, in fact. No one was home. He was all alone, left to his own thoughts. Thoughts that swirled around and around, and around, and around. There wasn't really a purpose, just mindless thinking about… everything. (Swirling like clouds, clouds that are grey with warning. The trip of a single tear-shaped raindrop to the ground…)

He loved those moments. Where he was alone with no noise except his own, if he dared make any… Well, maybe loved it, but hated it at the same time. (To hate and love the same thing, no difference… none…) His mind would stray everywhere if he wasn't careful and, usually, he wasn't. Everything would pour out, about how he hated that while his whole family was out and he was left alone. Did he really not matter?

(Even if I'm not there, it's the same. I don't really belong here… Grey feather among the white, similar and yet not the same… different.)

His mind would stray to thinking that the only thing that kept him alive was not wanting to die, even though dying seemed the simplest. Not that he'd actually do it, the thought of evenattempting itscared him and he knew someone would miss him. Maybe not who, but they would. (Silver blade, don't harm me please. Skin that parts so easily to your side…)Friends? He had a few, not that he was all that close to them. Ultimately, he was closed off, choosing to keep his true self locked up and stored away. It wasn't worth the risk of being hurt againto show everyone who he really was. His cold and aggressive façade was enough. It kept people away, it kept him safe. If he lost someone, it wouldn't affect him as much. (Don't ask, secrets kept are best. Withered and dried, the petals stay to protect their centre…)

Sure, he realized this was what caused so many to be reluctant to befriend him, but it was best if he was detached… right? (Medicine for society, care not about the stranger next you…)Then no one would be disappointed in him later on. It kept his emotions at bay, under key along with the rest of him.

Silently, Lovino turned over onto his stomach sighing out. He hated that useless feeling he always had. He had to be good at something, he couldn't just be average at everything he did. (Taunt me with your lies. My life is normal, add some spice, will you?)Dragging his sight up he thought about it, he always received compliments on his stuff from someone. Even with that, he always shrugged it off, said it was okay, and plastered what he hoped seemed like a smile. (Has your mask shattered, littering the ground with it's lies?)

It didn't feel natural, it never did. Maybe once, he was able to show a ghost of a smile. But only once. None of his 'happy' emotions seemed real, seeming like something plastic and a rough copy. Even those few tears he had once let flow down his cheeks felt faux, like the cheap fur purses people in town bought. (Fake won't help anyone, express your true self…)They never lasted long, one tear or two at the most followed by a bitter chuckle and a mumbled "I can't even cry right."

Moments like that also gave him ideas, he had notebooks upon notebooks of short drabbles, poems, random sentences, stuff that counted as short stories, ideas for novellas, essays, lyrics, random words that caught his attention and might give him inspiration. (Flowing with life, take my pains away with every stroke…) Once he thought about something, he could draw out on it. It wasn't a talent, he didn't count it as one, it was just a way to release his suppressed self. (Talents are for those who want fame, gifts for those who didn't choose…) A way to get rid of everything even though it didn't really helped. Maybe while he wrote a small, and sincere smile would play on his face. Of course he would know the difference, his real smile was small, only one side of his lips would quirk up and he'd feel at ease. Not that anyone bothered to care about it. (A ghost who smiles is nothing different…)

Reaching for his current journal, he was startled by his phone alerting him to a text message. Cursing out quietly, Lovino reached for his phone instead, lip reading the message before throwing his phone towards his bed. He didn't need to respond, whoever it was knew he didn't always answer. His writing would be more important anyways, he rationalized going back for back for his journal and the grey mechanical pencil to pen his thoughts out. (Every mark, every scrape, pours out my emotions. Take them now…)

In quick, neat strokes he began the starting of a poem. The first words were so simple, yet managed to bring up so many more thoughts, subconscious ones, and alternate routes to the first written line. (What has become of my world…?)

Lovino pressed the cool metal pencil to his lips, maybe his last thoughts could fit in somewhere… (Coolness of the pen to the warmth of paper. Words like ice branding themselves to be held forever…) It was more fuel to write at this point making his pencil fly across the page in short bursts moving from one line to the next to finish off his poem. Rereading it quickly to cross out a word here, add one there, and think of synonym for that one. (Speaking always tougher than scrawling. Did my pen eat them all?) He was well acquainted with this process, done with his work in about ten minutes. Nodding at his work, Lovino went back doing nothing. No one had come home yet, not even some of his annoying (Real ones don't abandon, fake ones bring out the worst…) friends had dropped by to annoy him. The last time he was alone this long something had happened that he wasn't aware of until his brother had come back sporting a broken leg from a fall. (Frail things, bodies can be mended, soul and heart naught.)

Sighing out, he stretched out getting comfortable. Time to lose himself in his thoughts again...

(Lost in their world, don't look for those who don't want to be found…)

~ooXoo~

Don't get me wrong
I'm not pessimistic,
I'm being realistic.

I keep going forward,
It's not that I want death.
It's just that it hurts to take a breath.

I have no reason.
Don't call me insane,
My everything just feels inane.

I don't know,
And I won't hope.

I'm being realistic here.

A/N: Okay, so another one-shot. I know this one doesn't make sense,
it's not supposed to. I added a poem to this one as well, so I'll say
this so I don't get asked like in "Matching the Outside": Any poems
used, or excepts, are my personal creation unless stated otherwise.
Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this! I don't own Hetalia.
Please review!