I’m not getting any better,
No I’m not getting any better.
I am what I used to be,
Maybe worse than before,
But my silly heart won’t give answers.
It won’t stand up,
N it certainly won’t die,
But, yes! What it does,
Is fuel my miserable life .
It won’t go numb
Even if I stab it to death.
An illusion creator it is,
To make me think I’m free from its claws.
It hides in caves, not deep within
And pounces back into action
When strength is what I need.
Like a hunter it preys,
And a parasite it thrives,
Takes away all from me,
And make me lose the little strength I have
To leave me writhing in pain once again.
The misery I feel, might even be non-existent,
My pain and tears might be useless
But this sadistic heart of mine
Just loves to see me cry,
Loves me too much, to even create sorrow
From thin air,
And form a make-believe world,
Where only I suffer
And drown in a marsh, just to resurface
And drown again.
~k~
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