The pain helps,

sometimes.

It tells me the truth,

the fragile claim that I'm still human.

The thought that I,

this bag of meat and bones,

am still important,

that I'm someone.

Rage and the burning fire of hate,

keep my fading flame live.

The love and the passion,

that seem to be a distant dream,

keep my hope in a tormenting wishful thinking.

My soul, if there ever was one,

screams in silence for help,

as sorrow has washed all happiness away.

Please help me,

my mind thinks,

but from my mouth,

no sound leaves.

In the end,

all the beauty and life outside,

end in grey, sad dim lights in the inside.

Who am I?

Adrian Gabardo.