The error of my ways,
My debt to pay.

I wish I had something wise to say.
But the words seem to fly away.
To write is to express myself,
But the words take a piece of my soul.
Giving and giving is all I ever seem to do,
I long to receive like I feel I rarely do.

These days I pour,
I swear my soul is sore.
I wish for a long and caring embrace,
But to my suprise fate seems to embarrass.
How long will I hold?
Will I ever get old?
Am I doomed to die or is the dice rolled in my favour?
I wish there was another flavour,
The only scent i can smell is a deathly savour.

As told before, to write is to express myself.

My emotions are bottled up, flankly, noone cares.
My heart dares,
My mind stares.
The two are not in agreement,
I wish they could make an arrangement.

I'm about to die.
Should I end myself? ...