For All But I
Alone with a knife in my back
walking along, its blood I spat
saliva impossible of me
the days gone by with nothing
Broken and tattered by the thorns
the empty straint of movement
moving along, no beat, tune, or rythem
only empty words of betrayal
emptiness be my only company
my atonement the mud on my clothes
but what amends need made
for existing in my own way..?
hope for a feeling of pain, alas
i feel nothing in every way
sufferage for those around me
those undeserving of my suffering
------- Author's Notes -------
An old poem of mine (its what i get for looking through old notebooks..) Unsure of where this would really go, so I put it under the best catagory for it...
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