Analysis

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.

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