Old poems.
Old me.
Lonely nights like these I wonder if I really still exist if I'm not so full of youth. I'm still young, but it feels like there's something missing in my heart everyday.
I miss who I once was.
That boy who was always trying to impress.
I feel I've given up in a sense. On being me, like an empty slate was the best form of self preservation. It's sad.
Like a character born from trauma, that's so colorless.
It's hard to differentiate sometimes, if I've missed you, or myself more. Or what we had, the innocence disappeared so quickly. Too quickly.
Sep 21, 2023
Sep 21, 2023 at 12:35 AM UTC
Old poems.
Old me.
Lonely nights like these I wonder if I really still exist if I'm not so full of youth. I'm still young, but it feels like there's something missing in my heart everyday.
I miss who I once was.
That boy who was always trying to impress.
I feel I've given up in a sense. On being me, like an empty slate was the best form of self preservation. It's sad.
Like a character born from trauma, that's so colorless.
It's hard to differentiate sometimes, if I've missed you, or myself more. Or what we had, the innocence disappeared so quickly. Too quickly.
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