untitled

I can't believe you did that
my hurt is beyond my pain
if only words suffice
I would tell myself everything

a sensible doubt

Maybe, just maybe, I'm not so special after all.  Perhaps I wished to die a long time ago, and in my desperate attempt to save my own life, I made myself special.  It is for this I live on, it is my raison d'être. One day, it was hoped, that this salvation would indeed turn into something especial.

Hope, however, is not known to materialize itself.  It's only natural for hope to find emptiness.  There hope rests, but never dies.

It has been a burden to be special, I envy those who chose to die a long time ago.

When should I choose this death?  Now perhaps.  Maybe I do.  I do.  I am specialnot.

But that doesn't mean I know who I am.

who throws a change-up before a fastball?

I do
if you don't understand
f you