

With every rising sun, New darkness. New darkness. With every setting of the sun, New darkness, looming over the horizons. Deaths, some brutal, some peaceful,
Staring into space, My mind is crowded, A gloomy fuzziness, Just like the weather outside, Exhausted, sad, empty. The walls around keep getting closer and
The clay in the potter’s hand is damaged, But if you called me home right now, I’ll ask for these, Pat me on my back
I was a child, Seeking the guidance and warmth, That only a mother could give, But all I got was the cold stare of religious
Tears. Snort. A blank mind, Tired, tried, tested, failed, In this abyss of nothingness. That holds me and tells me, That no matter how hard
No matter what I tried to do for or with them, The way they saw me never changed, Not even when I made them smile
Her orbs were always bloodshot. In their depths hid suffering, In them flickered despair, That even destiny couldn’t do away with, There was a dim
The hits that never stopped coming, The attacks that always lingered, The hurt that stayed so damn long, The pain that left internal scars, The
The comfort of your hugs, I longed for, Lying beside you, happy, safe and secure. A routine in homes, so common and true, Yet mine
The tale of a sibling This sibling— Not just any sibling, But the firstborn sibling. This sibling, Always in charge, Always knowing what to do,