Faceless

Voice anonymous and unheard,
tongues twisted and slurred,
the tender atrocity of hollow faces.

Tormented in a box of glass,
kissing the sands of suicide and ash;
a tranquil pond molested by silent feet.
And we prance
on the decaying roses of true romance,
daubed in grief;
similarities of an apache dance.

They slid across insomnia's lips,
an aesthetic little girl,
never tasted revulsion on her fingertips,
the magnetic parody whorl.

I've been broken,
inbetween lullabies never spoken.

Drinking from a waterfall made of tears,
a rift in my teenage years.
And I'm drunk on dreams,
driving through a state of low self esteem,
where shards of glass that once were me,
rip me open into an endless crimson sea.

Never touching mirrors with an image;
a morbid angst I find tasteless,
and pleasure is faceless.