Them

<p>They don't get it.</p><p>They don't see me.</p><p>It's hard to make them believe.</p><p>I have a record of memories</p><p>on repeat I my head.</p><p>My demons keep the track spinning,</p><p>so they can see me dead.</p><p>It's hard to make them believe,</p><p>that I really can't eat.</p><p>That in my stomach is an empty pit,</p><p>slowly being filled by the black</p><p>tar called emotions, until I throw it up in the kitchen sink,</p><p>and try to wash it away. </p><p>But it never goes away.</p><p>It's hard to make people think about you for a change.</p><p>When you leave the room, and hope somebody notices,</p><p>and they don't</p><p>the crushing feeling</p><p>and heavy anchor of thoughts weighing you down </p><p>into the ocean of tears</p><p>seems to make your fingers slip from the dock of humanity</p><p>until your drowning</p><p>but your lips are chapped</p><p>and your throat is dry.</p><p>Like sandpaper rubbing on your skin until your nothing</p><p>but bones and a heart</p><p>that is slowly being killed.</p>