I feel cold,
broken and old,
forgotten, sold,
tossed aside like a bad piece of meat.
Overdue,
expired,
and in a way,
underappreciated.
Wasted.
Used up.
Like an old tube of toothpaste,
or an eraser to small to hold onto,
it's shavings spread across the universe.
I know there is more,
more to me.
Potential lost,
in a carcass tossed,
into a burning fire.
Hate,
no desire,
and a fear of what I could become.
But what could I become if I tried?
A philosopher,
a hero,
a story untold.
A skydiver,
a tree climber,
or maybe just an *******.
I could be a world,
a world of possibilities.
Or I could be nothing,
lost in infinity.
But I'll never know,
guess I'll be nothing.