They called us all romantics. They should
have called us sick, they could have called us dying. Instead
they called us lovely as we bled from our own wounds. They
handled us a bottle, they pointed us to bathrooms. They gave us
all a blade, and swore that we were fine.
We called ourselves romantics, and swore that we were such. There
was beauty in the dying, that thing for which we were trying. We
hid away our smiles and showed each other scars. They handed us a
tray, we dined on blood and pills. They gave us all they could,
as we smile tooth and grin, and swore ourselves not
We called them all romantics, as they lived their happy lives.
They asked if we were sick, we promised we weren't dying. We
hid behind our smiles, locked away our lies. They gave us all
their sympathy, we fed them fear and pain. They gave us all their
love, we gave them our false fine.
We told them of our romantics, they
called us sick and dying. They sought to see true smiles, and
asked to see our wounds. They give us still their love, we lent
them all our aches. We broke their pretty hearts as they fed us
prescription pulls, promising with each milligram a new dosage a
health mind, a world in which everything is fine.
They warned against romantics, and sneered them left and rigt.
They didn't see the sickness, the dying or the fight. They
whispered of their fraud, and blamed the children for this war.
They pinned it on the inform, the scared and the ill, secretly
dying to he made well. They didn't understand the struggle of
those who had to lie to say that they were fine, and perhaps they
-the age of