Illness is a fuel, burning.
A beacon to similar creatures,
Even a moth can transcend
Brutal facades.
Depression in leaflet form,
A wind sodden, concerns
Trickle from every gale,
Attacking the fibres,
Of my sanity.
A blissful state of deceit,
Echoes of Icarus
Imbue you with
Misshapen confidence.
The sun is beating on your back.













Comments
btw this is a sick poem
--
"Your second-hand smoke"
Brand New are so friggen joy I just lurve em!
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