Pile of rocks.
With a mask hiding his hideous self,
he goes through each day, like the normal kid he's meant to be.
Not a person notices the lies he hides behind the big black coat he refuses to take off,
not a person notices his missing face.
No one sees him sitting on the pile of rocks, day and night.
No one stops to wonder why.
This life seems more like a chore,
working harder than he should.
He refuses to let himself leave this self inflicted solitude,
he refuses to let the tears be in charge.
He remains cold and aloof.
He won't rant about the anger building up inside,
not once letting his imperfect self slide.
Because that's not who he is,
he insists.
He's not imperfect and afraid,
he's the beauty and brains no one can resist.
He's not a melancholy child,
fighting to keep on a smile.
He's the happiest off all,
the picture perfect image, an image no one can hate.
He's lying to himself,
thinking it's alright, he's trying to hide what he can't put aside.
He's far from perfect, with those scars covering his face.
he's shallow and distant,
struggling to see through the haze.
His nightmares remind him,
night after night,
that people see through his plastic cover, that nothing is alright.
You're nothing but a joke, boy,
the voices tease. A puppet to your fear, but do as you please.
With that he awakes, from his bed of rocks.
He starts another day,
with lies swarming around him, with the voices that mock.
he goes through each day, like the normal kid he's meant to be.
Not a person notices the lies he hides behind the big black coat he refuses to take off,
not a person notices his missing face.
No one sees him sitting on the pile of rocks, day and night.
No one stops to wonder why.
This life seems more like a chore,
working harder than he should.
He refuses to let himself leave this self inflicted solitude,
he refuses to let the tears be in charge.
He remains cold and aloof.
He won't rant about the anger building up inside,
not once letting his imperfect self slide.
Because that's not who he is,
he insists.
He's not imperfect and afraid,
he's the beauty and brains no one can resist.
He's not a melancholy child,
fighting to keep on a smile.
He's the happiest off all,
the picture perfect image, an image no one can hate.
He's lying to himself,
thinking it's alright, he's trying to hide what he can't put aside.
He's far from perfect, with those scars covering his face.
he's shallow and distant,
struggling to see through the haze.
His nightmares remind him,
night after night,
that people see through his plastic cover, that nothing is alright.
You're nothing but a joke, boy,
the voices tease. A puppet to your fear, but do as you please.
With that he awakes, from his bed of rocks.
He starts another day,
with lies swarming around him, with the voices that mock.