Some may ask why I don't cry.

Why is there this dryness of my eyes? With all of this shit in this world, how am I so cool,how come nothing gets to me. Truth is, I have to tell myselfI'm not depressed I'm not scared.That I'm happy, I'm smart. But as soon as I think it, I know it is a sham: One that's ever so slowly eating my heart.
Because, in truth, I cry. But not in front of watchful eyes. And I keep a portrayal of neatness because no matter what anyone says, I know its a weakness.
I cry because of my hair, my friends, my weight, my not so dazzling personality that I hate. I shed tears for the yearsI spent trying to be perfect,something that even if you actually achieve, isn't worth it.

And I hear that clock go ' tick-tock' as I run out of hope,Knowing that I've been ranout of ways to cope.

Because when I see all these people 

puffing smoke and snorting coke, that's the only time I feel some hope.

Wait, did I say that outloud? Lately the thoughts in my headhave been getting too loud.Like " go head girl, smoke that whole pound.".Hell, I might pass outand wake up tomorrow like" damn, another day living."