The excruciating pain I feel
on my wrist is beyond compare
to how painful the ache in my heart.
Each slit on my vein feels
nothing if compared to my soul --
twisted, wrecked and wounded.
Upon my murky face
lies thousand of shattering dreams
but too bad I cast them all
in a jar filled with blackening dust;
pouring on top of the once glistening hope.
Falling rain hits my head, unnoticed
but how painful I feel --
as if I am shot with dozen of bullets.
In my own crypt I lie down
with bloodshot eyes I gaze
upon the ceiling, waiting
for God to unveil the misery