Well maybe, we always say.
Maybe someone new will stay.
For all the pieces I can dream,
Nothing good to life I bring.
And for the years, haven’t I gone bad?
Have I not been driven mad?
Far too well I know the hate:
Possessing. Reaching for the blade.
Crying where is my heaven in this hell?
Hope. How else? A bit of lying to oneself.
Endure however long.
I hold on just to hold on.
A few weeks old.