I am tired of writing pretty words
and making pretty pictures to pass the time.
I think I must create these things
to forget myself and that I mind
that I can’t feel like others do,
and only to forget for a moment.
Things will never be as they once were.
The time for it is lost to me and can’t be found again.
I think I finally understand
actions I could not comprehend before.
To be loved is not enough,
a person needs to feel it .
My heart refuses to understand.
And friendship isn’t going to fix it
and I long for someone to hold my hand
without having to believe it’s pity,
without having to believe it’s a lie.
But that never comes.
So I keep writing lines
and I keep making marks on blank pages
to pass the precious time.
I wish he hadn’t said what he did
because he ruined my words
and he ruined my pictures
by telling me the truth:
that I wish I didn’t have to write
and I wish I didn’t have to make marks
but that’s all I have
even though that’s not a life.
That’s all I have.