the crinkled remains of my thoughts
the ashes of my misdoings
the crumbling walls of my actions
the open door of outgoing voices
the broken windows of hurt souls
live every moment in subdued pain
believe the delusion that everything is fine
turn the page to life everyday
hoping that it will get better
yet go to a corner everyday
to let tears stream and dry on cheeks
let the pen scramble across the paper
yet dont diagnose yourself with depression
dont think you are one of a kind picture of human tragedy
victim of someone else's wrongdoings
you are the fruit of your misgiving
maybe its the may you are built
just like a typhoon that destroys everything in its path
or the volcano that just blows and blows and burns everything
knowing no better way to go about itself
maybe ending it is ....
is it better...
will it be a cure..
or will it be another unending slide into more ..
of the same