Sta.sh
When it rains it pours,
Our brittle souls can't take anymore.
Death pounding at the door,
As if it was an angry neighbor.
Gradually it busts the door down,
Not making a scene or sound.
Escaping out of your chest,
Doing the best,
To be a tornado made of hell.
Doing well,
At hurting the surroundings.
You're running,
Meaning to show the scars,
But it has gone too far,
As you begin to burn everything in you path.
Other's still can't do the math.
They blame you,
Everything you do,
An excuse,
Can't be made.
The scars....Do you even want them to fade?
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