maybe i don't write sad
or about the things i wish i had
but never did
and i can't stand of the thought
the one that bleeds
and eats
and tears at my mind
until I've screamed
and gone half blind
and I learned today that
it's called a butterfly hug
i've always just called it
misery and her desperation
to feel
to need
and breathe it in
and no i don't write sad
about the love im a stranger to
i don't need it
ive always survived with less than nothing
less than real
less than concept
it's just honest admission
i can't tell if im proud
or just plain afraid to feel
because what then?
what becomes of me?