It is easier to be,
To exist, burning hopes
To the scintillating life.
But their exists a vacancy,
Or maybe a forever lingering presence,
Of fleeting moments,
Of questionable sanity,
When it is the equivalent
Of swallowing sharp stones.
The days when looking at your own reflection
In the mirror, becomes evident
Of staring in the eyes of a stranger.
They are just too much for some,
And for some,
It is the chaos in which they exist,
The questionable sanity
In which their fluttering heart