They have an opinion so they’re allowed to stare.
Some may be true.
They live to watch you hurt.
They plot on ways to keep you down,
make things worse.
They’re motive is to confuse you.
For a second you believe they care.
Only to find.
They’ve used you.
But truthfully that’s just who they are.
They’re like serial killers.
Their trophy is the scar.
They would have won if I had chose to stop.
They had it all figured out.
My fate was sealed then locked.
They were critics.
They couldn’t see I struggled with pain and its purpose.
That I had to understand,
I live in a world controlled by flesh.
and no one is perfect.
The way I seen it, I had been through it all.
I experienced the whole rise then fall.
It was I who felt and couldn’t express it.
It was I who went in and out.
Dealt with depression.