I sit alone under the sycamore tree wondering what it feels like to hate yourself

To loathe your very existence

To dream of putting yourself six feet under, the only place you feel like you truly belong

I don't think you can really know a person until you can count their scars

Whether they be mental blocks, things they've done to themselves or things you can't even imagine going through

The conclusion I have come to is a rather depressing one;

I will never know what it's like to feel like the outsider, the freak

The storm cloud in a sea of suns

I'll never know what's behind my friends carefully constructed masks

I can only hope that they let me in enough to read their warning signs

So as I sit alone

Consumed by my own thoughts

Dreaming with my eyes open

I take a slow breath in and let it out

As I come to terms with the fact that I will always be ignorant