By Arcassin Burnham
When you were 11 ,
You were made of stone,
Knowing little Kevin,
And how he walked home alone,
over exaggerating,
Pride too low to determine,
I'm afraid,
Of what growing up has to offer,
And if will cause my anxiety to get worse,
But hopefully not in a herse,
Long enough to lose my mind a often suffer,
Let go my soul,
Begging,
Can feel the pain,
My body aches and I'm getting paranoid,
Of the same fucked up existence,
Cutting slices of my soulless flesh,
Let my soul go,
Momma never lost her love ,
A little bit less,
Guess it comes with age,
To have this much stress.