the blood is red, running from my soul as i weep alone in the dark.
The blood is read all over my face, in my eyes, pouring tears from my torn soul.
my small, silent, daily death lies on my daytime face.
Hides in the lie of my sunny smile.
Others pass me like ghosts on the stairs, murmuring hellos
as i thud down
i wonder when it will end.
This night of my mind.
Sleepless, i daywalk,
pressed inward, warped, blurred,
a silhouette in the dark.
Others pass by, ghosts with schedules, laptops and watches.
Eyes glassy as they slide over me
What pain draws the lines in their foreheads and mouths?
as my eyes scan the dirty tile floor.
Oh, and once again -- I'm not an artist . . . these are my words, but the drawing's not mine.