Twenty three years; A short
life lived.
The day I die inside little by little.

The older I become the more I
resent life for being insufferably
calloused and bruised.

The pills, the billowing clouds
of cigarette smoke radiating through
the air; The sweet
intoxicating smell of liquor.
Pearls before swine.

No longer does it make me feel
as though I'm part of another.

Life gets the best of us, age is
just a number we all seem to
succumb.
And nothing is enough.
2014 Christina Jackson