I wish I were a stone, a tree,
a bird flying free, anything. It's hell to be me.
I never want to get out of bed,
It's useless I'm already dead.
Each day I go through the motions,
Blessed are they; who have no emotions.
I brood, I wonder, I instigate and cry,
Caught in a vicious circle with nothing left to try.
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This is a poem which I wrote last year. I know it's lame, but hell I felt good finding that scrap of paper in my coat pocket.
a bird flying free, anything. It's hell to be me.
I never want to get out of bed,
It's useless I'm already dead.
Each day I go through the motions,
Blessed are they; who have no emotions.
I brood, I wonder, I instigate and cry,
Caught in a vicious circle with nothing left to try.
--------------------------------------------------
This is a poem which I wrote last year. I know it's lame, but hell I felt good finding that scrap of paper in my coat pocket.
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