I tire and hunger for rest from humanity. I've grown bitter due to constant heartache. Oft times I have wondered what kept me caring, functioning, or even motivated. Then I realized it has all been a means of escape.
To what end?
What is the purpose of being? I do not see one, save it misery. I am exhausted by the high road; of being so damn objective and fair.
I want t scream until my lings burst. I have come to another crossroad.
Frankly I am disgusted with crossroads; this being the hundredth one.
Once more I must choose a path, but either way it will no doubt end with disappointment.
The creeping fear of a life without joy tends to soften my anger and deepen my sorrow.
I feel as if my hardships have much more than scarred me.
Honestly, does it matter one woman's pain?
(Written by Amy E. McCoy 2-13-06)
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