The problem with me.

The problem with me, is my sincerity the pain I feel before it's revealed.

They all wanted to know what was wrong with me. 
I just wanted to enjoy the rest of my days. 

The problem with me as I'm seen as a drama queen, but I truly struggle and it burns into me, being scolded, maimed and interned, am I a soul already laid to rest.

The problem with me is that I sulked because I wanted to believe, those who I loved would not  put me through torture, as far  as I was concerned.

There concerns where dually noted. 

But so was my need to curl up and die, an appreciated sentiment for one day yet to be, come readily. 

But I read between the lines, and felt deaths presents by my side, and felt alone but not abandoned by the ugly and broken, distorted and bloated even then I looked at the ugly  truth. 

I realized that I am a figment of imagination, an imprint at best. 

I feel there misdirected anger burning my face off, I feel the money grubbing anger that rips out my hair. 

I have been though the ringer, and they laugh who's going to love you now. 

That we have torn you down. 

For the problem with me is I'm deformed. 

Neck of hulk swollen, metallic taste of radiation in my mouth. 

They burned my soul from the inside.. microwaved... time goes right though you, blasted heat burning up my defense into defeat. 

Ragged rag doll  witch what now, torn up played with too much, time for the rubbish to be dug out of your inners. 

Time for them to pull you to bits, they  found the growth emotional, making everything hard to swallow. 

You doubt everything now that is the problem with me. 

I love enormously all of you.. 
But bid you add ue as  tears of war cascade over us, and radioactive wind too, that's all that breathes problem. 

Plants, animals, the cute and the fierce we are all in serious mode, as disaster has no recovery if the atomic bomb explodes. 

The problems we face, we cannot condone. 

I have lots of problems, but we all fear the worst.