What's the point of telling the truth,
When even after it is shed,
You don't pay attention,

To notice my pain,
That I am begging for help,
But I can't ask for it,

Asking would give the demon power,
Tell him he has control,
That I can't fight on my own.

I don't talk,
Yet you don't see,
Even when that is the oddest thing for me.

I break.
Can't you see all the pieces,
Laying on the floor?

The person
Who says they care.
That should love me the most,

Doesn't notice.
If that's the case,
How can I expect anyone else

To hear my silent plea.
Even if you noticed,
I can't say I would take the help,

Cause then I would feel weak.
Feed the monster,
That's all it would do.

I don't believe that this demon,
The one that haunts me,
Can be exorcised.

So why should I bare my soul,
And give you a show,
If you won't look when I need you to?