Crimson Beads

Pain, it's quite visible,
But only if you truly witness my chocolate orbs.
Deep down inside, where I try to hide.
You tell me to let you in,
That it'll all be worth it some day.
But that's only a privilege if you can see.

Now some may say that it's my own fault,
Why I hide, why I even try.
And others, they put themselves at blame,
So they hurt as well.
But you will only acknowledge my pain if you catch
A glimpse at these crimson beads.
My painted-red canvas.

People, they only tear me down,
Even when they see me hurting, crying, dying. . .
They call me emo, goth, lesbo, depressed.
All labels that they use to hide their own imperfections.
Sad, isn't it?
That they're hurting so bad that they feel the need
To cover it all up by bringing me down too.
Ironic.

Nobody notices the struggles I have everyday,
The struggle to live, the struggle to breathe.
And the struggle to hide my own canvas.
And because of the struggle, it only urges me
To create more delicate crimson beads.
Fragile.
Almost like. . . me.