It's a different type of insanity. Continually wondering where my place is and why I'm not good enough. Wondering why every venture and attempt at love is so futile. In the end I'm always left bleeding while they've refreshed themselves with my downpour. I've become optimistic. Changing the word "used" to "experienced". But no matter how many times I say "I am an experience meant to be experienced." The true feeling deep down doesn't change. I am never good enough. My light is bright, fulfilling, and attractive to look at. If only you wouldn't snuff it out after you don't need it anymore... at least leave me some. Some enough for me to regrow it and share with the next person not worthy but of but in need of it... who am I to say no? it does seem to be my only purpose after all.
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Spilled Milk
PoetryA collection of poems and diary entries from a brilliant yet troubled mind and a passionately pumping & bleeding, hurting & healing heart.
