existance

sitting in the dark,
thinking about everything,
while pretending to not think at all.
that's how all the nights pass,
dark and alone,
filled with the pulsing of blood and music.
made up of false smiles,
and slipping though shadows,
days aren't much better.
lives are spent hiding,
whispering behind locked doors,
wondering if love exists.
backstabbers are best friends,
and liars give the truth,
so there is no real point in trying.
pouring out insides,
on pieces of paper and over sidewalks,
is called self-expression.
we are taught to care,
but told everyday not to,
or we'll get hurt.
to cope with living,
ways are found to pretend we're not,
then eventually we stop existing.