There are a very few things in this world important to me
Hope is not one of them
For I had it, and I kept it,
Then I lost all that I had, and that was all there was for me
I am not important to me
Nor is the concept of hardwork
It is a lie, I say,
A big fat lie
That people who work hard
Achieve.
It is but God’s plan
To deceive
Each one of its wings,
Bruised, bleeding, and begone,
Forlorn, you are thrown in,
Forlorn, are you abused,
Forlorn, your skin then paper thin,
Your heart of no use
My brain has died, my heart has died,
The remains hence tangle off a broken thread,
Yelling, for some reason,
It is bizarre, how someone can be so sad,
And mocked, at all times
I give up, I exclaim, or I try to
For who has the will to shout any more
I give in, I retire
Finding myself incapable of what could be
It is all what could have been now,
Nothing new, nothing old,
Stagnant is now a form of its own
And I have decided to accept it.
