How could I ever hope to make something beautiful when my hands are 1000 miles from the clay. If I am so broken at my core how could do anything but break things. I'm sorry for who I am. Insignificant is all that makes me. How can anyone love me if I hate myself. Nothing is rite. Why do I even try when I know I will fail. Why do I even talk. Why am I alive if all I am to do is suffer waking up. Behind my eyes is nothing but black. I am the hopeless cause that does not make the news. I don't want anything. I am the forgotten. I am the injured horse. Every rose has its thorns but the pedals have been lost long ago. I don't want this shattered heart to beat again. I wish to be all alone.
No comments:
Post a Comment