i was never made to be loved.
never made to be the first or the smartest one.

for the longest time i wasn’t able to imagine or create,
and i’m still not able to. still crying, seeking solace.

my head was never made to imagine or design,
all it’s allowed is perceveing and seeing,
yet my eyes are full of poison and my heart wrung with pain.

my soul cannot find a place to call home or rest in,
for all homes feel foreign and the clock chases me.

there is no rest for the chipped, the damaged, the hurt. 

there is no place for my heart to breathe fresh air in,
not until anxiety and despair open their claws and let me go. 

i was never made to be loved, appreciated or understood.

i am a beacon of pain. miserable and deplorable.

i was never made to be successful, happy or pretty.
i feel like my existence was only made out of spite.

i hate being alive. 

– end of content –