You're a skeleton,

Made of perfection.

You are one to look up to.

You are a saint.

If someone were to hurt you,

It wouldn't do much damage.

Outside.

But, you fail inside.

A heavy feeling sets in your chest,

By thinking of sensitive topics.

All I've ever known is to be a poser.

Act different from yourself.

It's a identify crisis!

Who do I gotta be,

To please?

I remember blanks.

No one would understand the drowning sensation.

These scrambled thoughts form a rope.

And I hang by the neck,

Over a dark abyss.

Guess.

Or it'll be tighter.

If you're correct, it'll be cut.

I sit on a throne of lies.

Scratch that!

I cry on a throne of lies.

Yes!

I cry.

It's bad.

No worries!

It's a hobby of mine!