Oh I loved her so dear,
and her love I did not fear.
I thought it would always last,
but now it’s in the past…
I have wasted my limbs and my throat, the sweat of my brow, and the esteem of my peers. I have written all these words only to disappoint myself.
No matter how carefully crafted it may be, my lifeline could be nothing but these frequencies that fight off my fears. I’ve tried to pull meaning from anyone’s suffering, instead I’m coming to terms with feeling so sad, small, and scared.
By now, it’s been done to death. Overblown and picked apart. What’s left I only have to guess.
No more feelings, no more songs. The best has come and gone.
It still hurts, but I cannot stop serenading the void. It’s the only thing I can do to feel like I’ve left a mark. It’s living life under a shadow—the visceral but fleeting ghosts of youth and its imminent decline.
I still long for art not born of suffering. How long will I sing the music of my wounds?
There’s no more room to grow. Don’t weep for what I have become. I swear I’m better off. I swear!
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