[ Trigger warning ]

Rustic wood, an earthly smell

getting up in the nostrils, smeared

in red-eye, see that's how easy

would be; to be lost forever.

A beggar is standing on cross-stitching

fighting for their existence, lifting gazes;

heavy loads of tired souls, once upon

a time it's used to be me, bewitching the title.

Miseries folded in dagger, now I only

staggered, to uphold the same sombre

whereas I wasn't normal; to fit in boggling

Now only I dance, over their dead meats.

Beseeching isn't a choice; when one

fights for their shallow breathing, my tears

were only a stain; in their satan shirt

— I became a laughing stock to them. 

I don't shed the pain drops anymore,

instead I became the reason of silent

hues, where only my laughter echoes.

And it's normal, the hysterical clown.

The world is crippled with red stained

recipes; don't worry I am only a

shadow following behind, see— put a smile.

Red stained bloody hands; crawling at your back.

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