Surrounded by a smog,
breathing in a dark fog.
Twisting internally,
hurting eternally.
Bleeding on the inside,
I'd rather it outside.
Nothing but a shell
& nothing to compel;
me to do right or wrong;
maybe even live at all.
Growing ever darker,
climbs getting harder.
I have no rightful place,
but there is still a mask on my face.
I march forth with haste,
Hoping for that final taste
of blood in my mouth,
swelling on my tongue,
to know the end has begun.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem