What, and I'm doing here? Cool, and why? Why, does any of this matter? What, do, we, all see? Nothing... The dream that his knee, is broken and laid it out. Somehow all of this means more. The dream, Stern up a longing within his mind and heart. Yet, the smell of the city, remains strong upon his brow.
I would hope that somebody was reading my words. I would be glad to believe, that there was hope for my thoughts. I would think, that I actually am. Yet, I find no proof to what, or guarantee such. Where is this dream? Where, is this hope? Is any of this even real? My words fall from broken scarred lips and yet, I still scream them out into the darkness. I hope, for some sort of answer. But, I expect none. Whom would answer my indignities? Who would accept my questions? Oh, do I really think that I am? Life is just a broken dream. Time is just a broken go. Life streams behind us, like blood from a cut vane trailing in the wind.
Is anybody really reading this? If so, could you please give me a shout out. Let me know, that I am not just screaming into the darkness.
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