you are eighteen and struggling to know who you really are.
the friends that you keep close make you feel so worthless
but at least you aren't lonely,
or at least that's what you tell yourself.

you think about how things were so different a year ago
and how things quickly fell apart.
two dimensional friends come and go
you don't even have the strength to care anymore.

so you write down all the things real enough to say
but not enough courage to say it.
that's the thing about art, it's still beautiful
even though it may be broken and misunderstood.