The person inside me is dead,
And tired of pointing fingers,
Looking for words once said,
Showing why contempt lingers.
A body still roams without aim,
The masses often wonder how,
One life can be wasted in vain,
Even my God won’t save me now.
Living one heartfelt apology,
Which never seems sufficient,
So hopefully one day I can be,
More then an inferior decision.
Everyday is a slow euthanasia,
A needle never penetrates less,
I am little more then a wager,
Between desolation and death.
The sun hides behind clouds,
Inside this world of my own,
Covered in shadows of doubt,
Perpetually leaving me alone.
I am just a single individual,
Judged and sentenced apart,
Not any part of the residual,
Of the lineage without a heart.
What’s left of me is beautiful,
No matter if one never notices,
It has nothing to do with visual,
Leaving me simply meaningless.
I find inner strength in prose,
So I can walk down the street,
With all of these scars I know,
Those passing by must critique.
I believe that nothing is real,
Except what is within myself,
I am too debilitated to feel,
All of the life I still have left.
The person inside me is dead,
And is never going to return,
No matter the words I’ve said,
There is still no need to mourn.
Nothing will help me to escape,
All I never wanted to witness,
In an existance full of hate,
Except for your forgiveness.