One of many, I’ve been left like I’m broken.

I was a tool of the system, if I didn’t work, I can’t be working. I’m busted and garbage to the rest.

Now I sit at home, waiting for my account to bust, for my room to be torn apart, and my stuff to be left out to rot of the side of the street. I do not work, I must be broken.

My life in pieces, that don’t fit Into eatchother. Why can’t I find the glue, what did I do to be left so confused. Not inspired enough, I supposed. I laughed, it was my own choice, at the end of the day to stay broken, I choose to be confused. My life is in pieces and I refuse to pick them up.

I am refuse, garbage.

Yet, I must rise, and relish in the world of mine, pain leads to greatness, and I can’t waste my pace. In seconds I’m up, a manic depressive scene.

Not broken, maybe fractured. I’ve sown together the ripped seams.