Bottling up my emotions every single day,
Feeling so numb, that I don't feel real.
Rehursing and praciting the things I would say.
While living dead inside it's hard to deal.
Pride consumes my body,
Scars make up my fleash.
Black and white is how I see.
Feeling dirty even while freash.
Can't ask for help even if I were dying.
It's a problem of mine I must admit.
I will avoid my phobia of clowns and flying.
Even though suicide is what I will likely committ.
My walls are miles high, with no signs of weakness.
There is no one I will allow even a layer in.
My skin is rough as my fingers long to caress.
I'm trying to break the wallls down, it's time to begin.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.