where we write it



I’m not loving life,  because it didn’t love back.

Sick of traveling roads, they all have no ends and leave me lost.

Sick of saying ‘I’,  but I’m still saying I.

Sick of no one caring,  am I allowed to complain?

Always nervous, I can’t remember the last time laughing.

Reality everyday, when can I smile.

Time is still ticking, memories and breathes passing.

Should I sing or write to make them less awful?

Suddenly, I have no emotions. I don’t know if it’s awesome.

Living moments of ungrateful talk, and disrespectful silence.

Just go by, dear life as long as you’re going to go by.  I’m forced to be, forced to feel.


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