I feel as though I have nothing to write about.
Like I’ve spoken every little thought into the air.
Written every collapse over and over again.
Recycling memories to show some greater purpose.
Akin to feeling a hell of a lot more worthless.
I’ve heard some say that life finds a way.
We can always find more means to fray.
I could have it all and I’d have nothing.
I once carved out a life from caved in concrete.
To strip away false prophecies or find some anew.
But we all sink back into the same level of dirt.
Earth that our small lives make muddy.
Today, we dance on the edges on knives.
Some more sharp and others dulled.
And I’m not as precise as I once was.
These days, I might not be of much use.
But I’m more than just your self-inflicted wound.
Like water to a wilted flower,
I come alive when given what I thirst for.
I’ll recycle your air and help you breathe clearer.
But none of that comes to fruition.
Good intentions simply stay good intentions.
You speak of help, well I’m here listening.
But you have it distorted, no clear reasoning.
So let’s put this to bed and give it some rest.
Who you think you are isn’t who you are.
And I left before your faults could leave scars.
You can deny all of your self-righteousness.
Smother what you think is your trouble.
But at the end of the day you’re left with you.
While I’m alone, cleaning up all of the rubble.