My world is crushing,
The buildings are falling,
The color that makes it real is fading,
My life is crumbling,
What’s worth living?
I thought I could be my own hero,
And protect myself from the misery and misfortune;
But no! I was deceiving myself.
I’m no warrior of my past
Neither the hero of my future.
I’ve lived in trauma.
I’m called a sad poet
Well, I am.
My past made me one.
Life has been my enemy from the start.
It never healed my wounds,
It made it worse.
The pain has been gushing since years past,
Still flowing till coming days.
I’m called Miss Perfect,
But my imperfections are thorns in my flesh.
Who am I to blame my past for making a scratch?
Leaving my heart with so much bruises;
I’ll blame him for giving me chance to live.