Sep 15
Am I really hurt?
Or is it just my way of hiding my mistakes?
Am I really hurt?
Or is it just that I am exhausted of life?
Am I really hurt?
Or is it just me playing the victim card?
I ask these questions from the universe,
But all I get are hollow whispers.
I ask these questions from the crowd,
But all I get are pity stares.
I wonder if my heart is broken
And fear undressed.
I wonder if I am just choosing between life and death.
All this seems *******.
All this seems unrealistic.
But these are my questions
And this is my poetry.
I like my broken self.
Or do I really?
But these are my questions.
And you've got no right
To decide who I am...
Or is it just my way of hiding my mistakes?
Am I really hurt?
Or is it just that I am exhausted of life?
Am I really hurt?
Or is it just me playing the victim card?
I ask these questions from the universe,
But all I get are hollow whispers.
I ask these questions from the crowd,
But all I get are pity stares.
I wonder if my heart is broken
And fear undressed.
I wonder if I am just choosing between life and death.
All this seems *******.
All this seems unrealistic.
But these are my questions
And this is my poetry.
I like my broken self.
Or do I really?
But these are my questions.
And you've got no right
To decide who I am...
My pain is not a story for you to follow. It's a wound. These words are the cry of a soul so tired, it has to wonder if it's just playing a part. I don't want your sympathy. I just want you to know this kind of pain exists, and it's as real as the words on this page.
