I dont know what to say that wont sound complainy.
And distracting from what I've done.
Justify it? Sure, how long do you have?
My season died sometime around in March,
My letters lowered from the first med bill and,
Spirits followed, freedoms constricted.
Then was the most I'd ever had.
6 years of depression.
Aint half bad, but dont tell me I quit early,
God forbid I get what I deserve.
Success so far from sight, round a curve.
Concave; did I move? I concur.
I keep hoping, but I forget what for.
I'm scared I'm alone,
Scared through the bone.
Running away you say?
I ... I wish.
I'm tired now.
Of running, of stressing,
of these expectations,
limitations, frustrations.
I'm done with 'em.
My hands are high to fates fortune,
Maybe it's a good one. |