I turned eighteen thinking I won't make it that far. I'm not proud that I did because life is becoming serious. I cannot see a future for myself beyond a grave, I can't help but think that that's all 'm destined for. Why do I keep lying to myself then? clinging on to the dead hope of a better life someday how many candles do I have to blow with closed eyes? wishing I could rewind my youth to stargazing and parties and freedom not looking from sidelines at what others enjoy can I, for once, feel real change? nothing half assed or false promises, for I feel like my life has been getting by on that But it's not enough anymore.
I loathe crawling into bed everyday wishing I had a life beside my own one where I feel content and complete instead of broken and torn my words disgust me now I'm afraid I can't seem to get them out how I want to anymore to tell you the truth i feel like I strayed from the only road that led me towards expression
now I'm stuck in my head under the roof of my room wishing my depression away with saltly tears for it is my doom.