The turgid existence that I call life, fills me with anger, hatred and strife.
The people I know who are called friends, think I should be visiting them all time and drives me around the bend.
Many months go by without a visit or phone call. If I was to mention this to them when I visit them, they start to bawl.
I haven’t got any money the start groan, and I loaded I say as I start to moan.
So I stay in my little prison cell, alone in the dark and tell myself that it’s for the better, as if I believe that lark.
It should get better, no need to cry; at least I can look forward knowing, that one day I’ll die.
This open post was written 1 year, 3 months ago | V/U/S: 202, 19, 4 | Edit Post | Leave a reply | Report Post
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