Broken
everything that seems so perfect can only last so long before it starts to falter.
my life is just a comma for endless adverse events which
ultimately seek to paralyse my entire nerves. i'm just a feeble punching bag. people seem to hate my guts and will always blame me. they love to push me around and penetrate me, even when i've already been bleeding— tumbling on the ground helplessly. and for whatever reasons, i can't be angry about it.
every morning, i wake up with weary eyes. i start my day altering the screwed up mind, then busy covering my wounds, the bruises, and all the damaged parts. every morning i glance at the sun, i simply feel dejected.
by afternoon, all i do is resist the pressures from the crowd. cover my ears from the insults and curses. withstand the pain from getting hit, busted, and slapped— bitterly groan and grieve.
and in the mid night, i close my eyes, breathing slowly. i wipe the tears at the corner of my eyes so it won't fall upon my wounds. but sometimes i just let it slip away because apparently, i'd rather feel the pain from my bruises than my shattered heart.
right before i close my eyes, i always wish for a coming promise of a better tomorrow.
but the next morning, i will again be disappointed. and again, will alter the screwed up mind. then again, will be busy covering my unhealed wounds, the new bruises, and all the damaged parts. then again, i will glance at the sun, and will simply feel dejected, again.
***
"He used to think that he wanted to be good, he wanted to be kind, he wanted to be brave and wise, but it was all pretty difficult. he wanted to be loved, too, if he could fit it in."
Broken
everything that seems so perfect can only last so long before it starts to falter.
my life is just a comma for endless adverse events which
ultimately seek to paralyse my entire nerves. i'm just a feeble punching bag. people seem to hate my guts and will always blame me. they love to push me around and penetrate me, even when i've already been bleeding— tumbling on the ground helplessly. and for whatever reasons, i can't be angry about it.
every morning, i wake up with weary eyes. i start my day altering the screwed up mind, then busy covering my wounds, the bruises, and all the damaged parts. every morning i glance at the sun, i simply feel dejected.
by afternoon, all i do is resist the pressures from the crowd. cover my ears from the insults and curses. withstand the pain from getting hit, busted, and slapped— bitterly groan and grieve.
and in the mid night, i close my eyes, breathing slowly. i wipe the tears at the corner of my eyes so it won't fall upon my wounds. but sometimes i just let it slip away because apparently, i'd rather feel the pain from my bruises than my shattered heart.
right before i close my eyes, i always wish for a coming promise of a better tomorrow.
but the next morning, i will again be disappointed. and again, will alter the screwed up mind. then again, will be busy covering my unhealed wounds, the new bruises, and all the damaged parts. then again, i will glance at the sun, and will simply feel dejected, again.
***
"He used to think that he wanted to be good, he wanted to be kind, he wanted to be brave and wise, but it was all pretty difficult. he wanted to be loved, too, if he could fit it in."
