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I'm broken beaten down worn out hollow tired all those other synonyms for what I have become **** everything is just so wrong all of my plans burnt down along with too many bridges I mean I've lost everyone I can count on in one way or another So I wrap myself up in the hurt because it's the only blanket I have against the cruel world I live in **** Why do I even bother writing anymore there's only so many ways I can say I'm a broken human being Not broken in a good way But broken in a way that makes me non-functional how many friends I lost know I'm going to lose more just because that's how life works I stopped counting after I lost my lover then my best friend stopped counting after the fourth suicide the missing **** it's time to put the pen down I can't write away all of my problems there's no value in "I miss you" no matter how eloquently I pen it you're not here anymore and I'm so ****** up this poem don't even have a single Person in mind when I'm writing it I literally can't keep track of how many different pains I'm trying to address... oh well... ****
0
May 30, 2017
May 30, 2017 at 4:36 AM UTC
Time to Put the Pen Down
I'm broken beaten down worn out hollow tired all those other synonyms for what I have become **** everything is just so wrong all of my plans burnt down along with too many bridges I mean I've lost everyone I can count on in one way or another So I wrap myself up in the hurt because it's the only blanket I have against the cruel world I live in **** Why do I even bother writing anymore there's only so many ways I can say I'm a broken human being Not broken in a good way But broken in a way that makes me non-functional how many friends I lost know I'm going to lose more just because that's how life works I stopped counting after I lost my lover then my best friend stopped counting after the fourth suicide the missing **** it's time to put the pen down I can't write away all of my problems there's no value in "I miss you" no matter how eloquently I pen it you're not here anymore and I'm so ****** up this poem don't even have a single Person in mind when I'm writing it I literally can't keep track of how many different pains I'm trying to address... oh well... ****
Life is like a box of grenades: doesn't matter how long you juggle them, they all will blow up in your face.
jack-jenkins
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May 30, 2017
May 30, 2017 at 4:36 AM UTC
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