A lot or even badly,

at this point I cannot tell,

in happiness but sadly,

through my life a living hell,

I seek escape and so I joke,

about the way I feel,

its your eyes that through the smoke,

that make me realize that I’m real,

‘cause life for me is different,

than everybody else,

a life more like imprisonment,

and here you are yourself,

filled with words like every book,

that rests upon my shelf,

so when I stare just know I look,

and see more than a shell.