I'm sick of all the drama
The pain and the confusion
The tears and the sorrow
The thing I have become
Knives.
My only source of comfort?
Maybe.
But what else do I have?
Friends?
Yes.
Someone to love?
Yes.
Are they better than a knife?
Probably but I didn't listen.
Sometimes I wish
That I was still a good girl
That I had parents who understood
That I had the morals
I once thought I used to have
There's so much I could wish for
But a genie only gives you three
A star, only one
So I can't.
And my never get the chance to
Every battle leads to war
Every war has a battle
I've been through battle
I've been through war
Nothing is worse
Nothing.
I've been used.
Trampled on.
And never taken seriously
Because I don't have a voice
Never have
Never will
But I'm still here.
Still alive. Still breathing.
Barely.
But can you ask for more?
From someone who has given everything...
And never expects anything?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem