5 letters I wrote.
5 pencils I broke.
5 letters forgotten.
My food is all rotten.
From spending my time staring.
At my pages that I’m tearing.
And I sit here and wonder: why are we alive?
To fulfill this doom where we no longer strive?
Or is it to ponder and question ourselves,
Where no one can help us and no one can delve,
Deep in our lives where we never had help.

And I’ve come here to ask this simple task.
Don’t leave us alone, in this helpless grey zone.
Where writers can’t write, and spirits can’t fight.
And people never forgive things that hurt them.
They spiral into mayhem
They cry out and scream, “How could you do this to us!”
“We’ve tried and we’ve tried, but we feel worthless!”
Then they cry and they cry and I pretend to sympathize.
Why is living so hard?
5 questions I asked, no answers I grasped.
I guess this is how I end.
Or maybe this is how I began.