A Masochist's Garden:

Morning glories by my bedside, mourning the youth I used to know. A painful garden where flashbacks grow. As I rise to face the day, my livid lips so blue whisper of decay. While some memories haunt, most just slip away. Yet here I lay, still like a frozen lake. And my pallid reflection in the mirror? Despised with hate. Bruised and beaten by my demons, they've come out to play. So what's the use of a name when identity shifts like rain. What's the use of love when I know only pain? And yet a masochistic rage remains, I loathe my brain. Am I just another caged elephant on display? Ripping at my face with a thorns embrace. Violets on a grave, violation since my life was made. Doesn't that justify my self hate? Something only caused by traumatic wounds ingrained. ~Zyhrenẞøng~