I drown,

in the polluted thoughts,

my brain generates.

To feel,

naturally unnatural.

To breathe in venom,

vile,

obscure

and

to need it,

in ways,

so unhealthy.

To die,

yet again,

is proof I am real.

I am real,

but...

no one sees,

or even tries to,

feel me.

I stand,

unconscious,

in a meticulously made conscience,

that knows nothing other than pain.