As I grow ill I look worse, yet sit still. With no one to serve me, console me or love me. Opaque skin, messy hair and a tired soul. Stressed by my past lives, drenched in guilt and doubt. When will I be saved? No hospital can cure me. Not without the hand I need. I miss the hand I need. I've grown adaptively to it. I can't save myself anymore.
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Infinity
PoetryA dazzling view of words. Multiple perspectives of life and my deepest thoughts and feelings. I write to relieve it all. Thanks for reading! ~Highest rank: #102 in poetry~
