The relief of the day
Is going to sleep
The dread of the day
Is going to sleep
The relief of some rest, like temporary death,
But temporary nonetheless, every worry is still there
Can I really blame myself for procastination, if I know I will end up nowhere anyway
And what's the point of blaming myself for not trying hard enough, I'm wasting away at myself
Why am I here?
I love pressing my hand between my knees just so I can feel the blood pulsing within,
The comfirmation of my own body that I'm just as alive as I've always been.
I love to take care of myself every now and then just to remember,
No remedy or medicine will care for me better than me.
