I have legos,
I have toys,
I have videogames,
I have food,
But barely any is what I need or want.
I am spoiled,
I am insulted,
They are kind,
Then they are sour,
They are ok with me
Then they hate me,
My parents,
My aunt and uncle,
They adopted me,
I don't know if the care for me,
They give me stuff,
The reason to shut me up,
I wonder if I just need some attention.
Maybe a childhood.
But no.
It's too late.
My life rate: I can't.
I won't.
I don't,
Because I have my future in mind.
Leave everything behind.
I'll be an author,
Maybe a poet,
I haven't actually tried to write deep poetry,
I just make little rhymes,
Telling my troubles,
But why should anyone care?
My kindness and hate are both not rare.
Life isn't fair.
Saying that doesn't make it better.
I am definitely not grateful for what made my life go like this.
But at least I didn't experience some types of business.
Life, destiny, fate, god, myself, everybody else.
I am not grateful,
If you made me as dead inside as I am.
All I have left is self-pride.
Even that's corrupted and terrible.
My ungratefulness is unbearable.
Why do people think it's still careable?