If only
it were possible
to be loved
for who I am
and not
for who I was.
Who I was
couldn't be loved.
Why would who I am
now
be any different?
We are all
simply
objects
anyway.
YOU ARE READING
Poems of a Neurotic Insomniac
PoetryLet's see how this goes. It's time for this sleep-deprived, emotionally-unstable creature to write some shit down.
