selected by pity
my thoughts askew
incorrect and very impolite
to cast aside would only hold
that of which is so easily forgotten
i often cannot follow myself
seen from afar as a child to a foe
innocent and unintelligent
versus mentally damaging and haughty
am i alone?
indeed it often feels as so
stupid and forgotten
left to wallow in the decay of my own simple thoughts
insert yourself into a soulless womb
and begin to contemplate
perhaps understand
that of which equals the life i had created
and lost just as easily
a secret begotten, a stench of regret
forms remorse and a constant search
for that inner sanctuary
if not in myself, much doubt to hold in another
who could underestimate me?
and indeed see, feel, and taste what i have
so i remain lost to everyone
lost to no one
lost to myself
unsure of if i care how little i know
my vision falters despite correction
and the ink of my pen tires
i am weary
weary of silence, of hope, of false predictions
i have grown old and am yet so young
my eyes have bled of all color
they remain a drab, worthless grey
a pitiful waste, lost yet again
to who
very little care
very little to hope for
so i lay in silence
listening to an answer
expecting naught but the obvious drum of my chest
an untamed note of my existence

so tired
so tired of knowing i am weary