“we break things not just as a means of release but also to see
some other thing broken aside from ourselves.”*
You asked me how
I got my hand broken
And I told you it’s
because the walls aren’t
getting any weaker
While I,
I am tired of trying hard
and I’m too worn out to fight
I am fed up with
all the things
I used to love
so I’ve been thinking ’bout
taking my life
but I see the walls
are all around
and I get the urge
to let it out
and so i do…
If I can no longer speak,
the walls would
for me;
they’d tell you a story
on how I turn
into something else
when I’m sad,
and how they stop me
when I’m not
in the right mind
and they’d tell you about
these little scars I have,
and all of the frustrations
I’m keeping inside.
You asked why and
I told you,
’cause they hear me,
when no one else will
and they feel it all,
every inch of my skin
when I lay it on them
so if walls could speak,
they’d tell you how I
hurt them
to hurt me
every single night.
