There is -only- a simple kind of pain
(the dulling effect)
In writing emotions
Of self esteem broken.
Bleeding poetry on paper.
Mine was the past that can not be.
I live with it.
Everyday.
Life's little mistake was my conception;
my connection to you.
Mother's tear soaked letter reads:
"You don't love yourself--
only what you want to be."
And Momma, it's not me.
It's not me.
It's the feeling of not fitting in.
A feeling of me compared to you.
-posted by Nobius 10:43 AM 