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.