my friends are my enemies
I SEEK: space, air, pencil, paper, sweater, smoke, Content
to be your own, sometimes you have to be on your own.
It's time.
It's time I grasp on to something greater, realize changes I need to come by, and the few things I need to hold on to, the precious things, the only few.
I want to run, run away
Run from you all.
DIRT, is what I step on, not what I am
SKY, what I never realize, where I want to be
AIR, dirty in the city, still fresh in my lungs
I seem to question myself on a daily basis of what I should and should not do.
The departure of my old skin is exiting, I want to live, finally live
Finally be fair, be inspiring, why can't I acheive this?
Why do I feel weak, why do I feel worthless, why do I feel unwanted.
Why do I feel like myself, and why do you feel superior.
Why do you feel better, why am I DIRT
...I'm not.
It's you that has tried to impress the spectators and achieve greatness
It's me that stands back and observes your pitiful effort.
No,
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