• benie_ 10w I

    They say that our pasts
    Shape our present
    My past was not a growth
    It was a destruction

    While people grow up
    Becoming and learning
    Succeeding and failing
    I died
    My funeral was attended
    But only by so few
    I mean,
    All I could see
    Were my personalities
    And I in the middle
    In attendance, of course,
    Was my past; the mistakes and the pains
    In white robes
    Was reality; more mistakes and torment
    "Come home, son. We've been waiting"
    Stuffed on a dark corner
    Rusty and hopeless
    Lay hope
    Hang-over; oh, now insomniac