Life was built of the back and arms of the people that were alive.
I don't want another problem.
Someone is at the door.
Don't bother. I don't have the time to listen while I'm alive.
I don't want to be here.
I feel like I am looking threw someone Else's eyes and seeing what they should see.
Like the people on the sides of the highway, Haunched over and hair gray like the storm clouds, as they move in a herd but some how vanish before you can fully see them.
I don't want to live, Only to become a Mistake.
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