Where’s your source?
What’s the point of living if I don’t even know what I live for?
What’s the point of waking up every day if I don’t or won’t like what I’d face.
Inexplicable feelings are piercing my mind
Dumb screams that can be heard only if you are broken like me
You want to know what I live for?
Try asking me what I’d die for
I guess my definition of freedom is different from the word found in the English dictionary.
Committing the high crime of trying to relive a moment I was never present in.
Am I the only one who feels these things?
The thought of loosing a stranger being greater than fear of death.
I need to love me back .
I need you to love me too,
Will your ever depending self be too busy when I take the last breath from the borrowed air of the dead?
I can’t scream enough,
I can’t write enough
Can’t even breathe enough
How then do I live?
How then do I fight for me when all I think about is you?

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