The men in our generation, too busy falling,
To help a tired young woman up.
Who am I,
But nothing?
a festering silence,
Unheard.
Ears perched,
Heart hurt.
Eyes, around.
My dirty hands, continue hauling.
My worn out chest;
I am tired of showing you my mess.
Tired of attempting to love ever again.
So intrinsically sad, from the years already spent.
From the lies and the hands, and please, by all means,
Use me, but don't love me,
Said no woman ever.
Save the world
No more than I can save the wretched oozing pieces of me left,
That even should they remain lovable, who then could qualify, I ask myself that...
Unable to comprehend, already forfeited...secretly hoping...
The next game,
Will yield.
Yield.
Yield.
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