And again,
I can’t do anything right.

It’s funny, it seems,
How melancholy I can be,
When working for something I so want to be.

I give up so easily.
It’s the frustration in me.

I don’t understand,
How I’m always able to fuck up,
The one thing I want,
So perfectly.

Do I let it happen this time?
Or do I fight for

And for what I want as well.
We all know that I don’t do things for myself.

If it weren’t for the other,
I honestly can see,
That I wouldn’t even bother.

It seems so simple to most, I’d assume.
You’re born knowing how to get from the womb.
You’re born knowing hunger, and how to resolve,
The emptiness inside that you no longer want.

Yet, as you grow,
You come to know,
That your mind doesn’t show
How to achieve,
Your wants and needs.

All you know is that you need to go.
Get away from yourself.

Fuck if this makes sense.

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