Grief

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If fakeness is the new "in" this summer... I was born fake.

If dead is the new "look" for the summer fashion... I was born dead.

I was born to play these pointless games,

I was born to lose them all.

I am prey to the rain,

I am gone in the picture of yesterday.

Washed away in the pouring water fall,

made dead with these nails struck deep within

gone weary with your exhales,

altered with all your inhales.

If this is "normal" then why do I feel so alone?

Why do I feel so mistaken for someone else?

If these dying ashes are a dream then why am I choking on fire?

I am stolen by flames,

connected by passing clouds

tossed away at the third mile...

left to die with open eyes & a puddle of guilt to comfort me as I begin to forget meaning & slip farther away drowning in my fakeness...

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