wrong, wrong again

there is something wrong with me,
can’t you see?

it’s in my eyes,
my nose,
my hair

it runs from heart to finger tip,
from stomach to toes


the badness i was born with or

i’ve broken my hands —

can i borrow yours to fix this mess?


This entry was published on April 20, 2013 at 12:32 pm. It’s filed under anxiety, emotions and stuff, head trips, honest conversation, life, life and living, mental health, mental illness, mind, photography, poetry, weird, words, writing and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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