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Why cant i ever keep things that are pure beauty?
Why the ******** cant i hold anything that's mine?
In the end everything i have is ******** used and broken.
I cant ever write a master piece without it being erased.
I can never make a blanket with no miss stitches with out it disappearing.
I can never make a necklaces that is the essence of me with out a certain someones dog devouring it.
I can make the most wonderful cake with out the eggs being rotten.
Its so ******** up how i can only envy the people who are less then whole.
Well with all certainty i doubt I'm anything above worthless,
because i worry all the time.
I put effort into things that come so clean for others.
But what i get is mildew and repulsing scars.
When i die i know I'll have nothing left.
Nothing that proves that i was worth something,
something that explains my struggles,
I'll just be another useless permanent moocher resorting to Motel Six.
 A t e l i c E n i g m a · Thu Aug 13, 2009 @ 05:45am · 0 Comments |
