THE MOST EXQUISITE KIND OF TORTURE
How I long for a semblance of reality
How I wish for a spark of chaos
Drowning, sinking in shouted whispers
Descending into obsidian depths
Constant battles demanding my attention
Clearing the path for anger, trying to suppress it
Vain hopes, shattered by a needle
Burning in the scarlet flames
My soul, ravaged by too violent storms
My mind, decaying by endless despair
Countless mistakes, used up second chances
Judgement day came, and went
Shunned by society – the chance for help no gone
Condemned, by the endless faults of justice
Mocked by the turned heads, and quickly averted gazes
Numbed by the blue–white ice
When loosing control, swirling through the emerald haze I learnt that
The most exquisite type of torture is too hope for help in vain