I am an addict,
anonymously. I do it all, but it's not me. It's someone different
than the man you see. I've found a way to be myself and hide.
My words and thoughts are my best disguise. I spark the tree under
stormy skies. I sit, listening amidst the lies. The chaos in the
air puts s sparkle in my eyes. Emotions are being toyed with and
there's spirits being broke. I sit back, smile, and toke. I see
a man crying because of lies, what a joke. There's only so many
times you can be broken, before you develop hate to conceal the
wounds you suffer. You learn in time to trust only yourself, and
lie about it to your lover. I'm a secret addict to other people's
pain. When I see other suffering, there's some sort of satisfaction
I gain. I was tired of enduring the pain myself, I decided infliction
was a better trade. For every friend, I've lost since then, another
beautiful enemy's been made. Opponents are better anyway, they
keep my wits sharp. I don't need friends anyway, friendships fall
apart. I'm content to be the pain inflictor, to give instead of
receive suits me fine. I suffer no guilt for my actions, I've
no emotions and little mind.
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