We write the most beautiful things
and then, so abrupt is time, we end; pass on
after our deaths, we're dead and forgotten
unacknowledged, unmissed; just simply gone
every one of us lives this life with the need to be loved
each of us goes through life craving to feel as though we're needed
so we can write our lovely sentences
but it's worthless, for we can't escape our fate, and in the end we'll still die
the beings we were to become, no more than mere ashes in the wind
not worth even whispers to carry on our memories
so hurt thus fell these, our flowing words
our hearts consumed with bitterness; grey
years will continue to pass, none will visit our graves
our pages, our legacies shall sink; take solace with us in the ground
so we mourn now, thou still alive; oh how we sit, sit and cry
we don't really make sense
for why wouldn't we be loved by another when we for another can ourselves love?
perhaps unconscious self-contempt leaves us craving to feel neglect for our return
or perhaps we're just so terrified of being broken
we use our fears, rejections, anger and abandonments to write our most magnificent verses
why punish ourselves so, when time will still in the end overbear, and we'll all eventually perish?
oh, the merest of acknowledgments to such notions may as well rip our hearts from our chests
we may have fled truth, begging, pleading as we birth rivers of our blood, sweat and miserable tears
all alone then, without another soul in sight to wander with us while we roam deaths rocky beaches
So it's all of us who are broken, after all...