Unwritten III

Most days I feel like fuck the world. Cold world we were born into. Cruel Summers leave blood stained sidewalks. Cruel Winters freeze the souls of theives. Fall & Spring hold a place in between. I’m trapped between the squares and the killers. Survival means adapting the role of the hero and the villian. Given a pill of hope to prevent the ultimate solution of suicide. Handed a bottle of dreams just to keep you alive. Can anybody understand our screams outside these gates? Branded the unheard so we hate. Who placed us in this wicked place? Questions that will never be answered fill my brain daily. Maybe too far into the abssy to finally wake up. Can god even save us? Save us from this hell. Searching through the dirt for my bible. I Lost my Jesus piece long ago. Directionless, hopeless, and forgotten. Can you blame us? Blame us for giving up on trying to escape. The sign reads “exit door” but it just adds another piece to this wicked puzzle. From trap door to trap door the cycle spins and takes all of us along for the ride. Would you save us if you had the chance? Vices consume the personalities of victims and they become indistingushable from their drug. Only a few miracles have escaped, but they forget this place even before it can forget them. A product of my condition so you can keep your peety because it won’t help me now. I gave up on dreams the day I was born because since the day I was born I’ve been markes for death.

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