Reading things I have written, I can no longer recognize, old feelings, draw the tears that dwell within' my eyes. I know I speak about it alot, but I have been contemplating life, its do or die, and I don't do so I just might...

It's sad to read... I just wrote it. Refuse to speak it as it might just leave me broken.
Troubled thoughts or troubled teen?
Does it matter? Either way he still has these dreams.
I don't know, life's moving to fast to analyze a single scene.
Fallen angel, bruised and tattered wings.
I want my own life, not more things.