We do not smile,
Because of the hurt they gave.
And we remain buried in our graves,
Burning and crying out in pain.
We do not care who we are in places,
Because we always walk on by.
We are so very ourselves,
And we fuck everyone else,
Just like anyone else.
You call us the depressives,
I call them the in-touches.
Because we are so rich with emotions,
It irks and boils your blood.
So cry and tell me soon,
When one of those ill veins snap,
Who do you fucking beg?
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