Burnt Songbook:

Here I am, bleeding like before. Born to mourn. Memories torn. Here I am on the floor. Trying to read a burnt little songbook entitled Trauma is a piercing thorn. Hear I yell, but you don't listen. Look at my side, these blood drops glisten. Hear me ask myself if I'm insane. When my bones are broken and my tears are shattered. Will the words I write be scattered across the world? Or will they stay upon this burnt up page? Will anyone ever remember my name? Here I am, my brain soaked in tears and pain. Bruise my body. Bend my frame. Numb the feelings just like novocaine. In a battle with myself. Overwhelmed by hatred for myself. Will this be just another dusty book upon your shelf?!