Her mumma used to tell her that she loved her
Her daddy annually
In her life it's the same old thing
Shes a broken down, broken thing
What is wrong with me?
One cut, two cut, cut a little deep
One cut, two cuts
What isn't wrong with me?
If I was born a boy, would you have cared for me?
Maybe I shouldn't have been born at all
Then you would be free, of the burden we call me
Rope? Knife? Gun? Jump? Or some pills?
So many options
To get rid of me
YOU ARE READING
My Little Book Of Random's
PoetryThese poems mean something different To every individual Respect them And each other For one's thoughts Count as blessings Or Poison in their food.
