I'm not a story.
Not something you'd recall,
I'm not the same kid that was born in fall,
I've heard the stories I've shared the rumors;
Those God I don’t speak of somewhat truthfuls;
They saw me,they wrote me,they ask me like they know me the somewhat unholy,they felt like they own me.My future,present and past these aren’t feelings I’ve asked didn’t mean to be scarred I didn’t want a lecture or a preach all needed was to be reached, in my bones I’m so alone it’s cold and under thrown,unbearable and unknown is this what my skin writes of me is this truly it’s tales and poetry or is this just another fail yet to unveil?