To Each its Own

Why do you strive to be who you aren't?
When does the disease morph into an art?
Can you not see the sickness inside?
Surrounded by sunrise, how will you hide?

The demon inside you had taken it's fill
Yet you wash every meal down with the same chalky pill
Love is not something to be found in a binge
Nor on weight loss and starving will it ever hinge

Blood-letting buries, but it doesn't heal
And you won't get better if you squash what you feel
Yes, lifestyle changes--but it's never death
Don't let yourself give up with each passing breath

People may move on, so watch what they see
But know that they don't know what you will and won't be
Days leave their turmoil awake in the night
Though a hopeful morning is always in sight

Humans are funny, because they think they can tell
Right when to whisper or sing songs or yell
The problem with this hope is that nothing's the same
As most like to make it in life's twisted game