I could write a million stanzas,
And not like any.
I could draw a million pictures,
And shred them all.
I could paint a million pieces,
And still think that someone did better.
I could sing a million songs,
And still want to change every lyric.
I could sign so many photos,
And still imagine someone beating my imagination.
I could learn so many instruments,
And still hate myself for not even trying just one.
I could fall in love with someone,
And watch them walk away.
I could smile at someone,
And still see them fade.
I could believe someone’s every word,
And still listen to their lies.
I could feel the pain of every emotion,
And soon enough die.
I could keep falling over and over,
And just get back up.
I could get a scrape,
And lose some blood.
I could end up in the hospital, on my death bed,
And still think that someone’s in much more pain.
I could lose my breath from an asthma attack,
And still see that someone’s dying of a disease.
I could complain to the world that I hurt,
But I’d still see that someone is hurting more..
I’m sorry.
