If you were to feel this irrefutable pain, your organs would squeeze themselves to the point of dehydration. Most people would affirm that they understand, they would nod heads and go about their lives. Most people even if they had to feign, would tell you that they knew what it was like. They would all say the same meaningless "one day" and "you're still young"s. They would never know that this many years still felt like eternity and there would many more to face. Every winter feeling more bitter, that there was no one to warm you. Even as your frozen fingers grace the buttons of your phone, you find that ever number is disconnected, at least from you. Essentially feeling like you are constantly bleeding, and when you encounter someone of interest you bleed even more. You cannot help the blood flowing from your skin. When you've watched them hold each other, kiss each other and know that you lack all of it, how then will you feel? When the songs on the radio reflect feelings that have never been felt for you, how then do you feel? When the only lovers that you have ever had are your box of cigarettes and lighter, how then do you feel? When life lays you down at the bottom, and you have only the tear drops that come so frequently, how will you survive then? Isn't it funny that those who claim to feel this despair are the very ones who could never live with it? They are the very same people who if they had to experience it for more than a few hours, would succumb to the sweet sounds of suicide. It is them who would nod their heads the hardest and say "I know" the most. To truly understand you would have to sink your head within the sand everyday for the next some odd years and wait for someone else to dig you out. For some I'm sure their savior would come soon, for others, those who truly understand, they would wait and wonder where the people who "love" them are. They would scream underneath fragmented rocks, for someone to help, but their cries would only be muffled. As their mouths fill with sand, they would feel the bitterness that cuts the tongues of the unloved. When someone out of their own kind heart, decided to come along and pull you from the sand, many would mistake that kindness for love. The kind individual would be chased futilely by the buried one. As many warm attempts as the kind individual would make to ward off the buried one, they would be pointless. So in a final attempt, at their wit's end, the kind one would turn cold and scorn the buried one for all their attempts. At the end, the buried individual would be so more hurt than could be explained and prayed that they could go back to the hole. It is a painful existence that we lead, disgusting to some, and over-exaggerated to others. To those who feel it, it is a constant festering within one's psyche, and it all happens to be the damnation of an artist.