It’s frightening to know that rose trees cannot grow from the cracks.
Your spirit cannot break through.
The concrete is the world and you are the plant that struggles to push forward and blossom, but you are turned away with a shallow rejection.
They will never come close to your feelings, empathy just a played excuse to make someone feel like they aren’t isolated in their own self loathing and pool of self pity. Almost, a marketing tool. Marketing happiness, that you bought on sale from a road side love shack.
The faded pink and red paint, peeling from the splintered walls as you take your wallet, ripping the paper from the cloth, the paper damp from your tears of hate, and other people’s unjust plan of what the world could be.
You grasped the happiness with broken fingers and torn fingernails, that held each other as you prayed for some things to change. You pushed open the door, made of jagged stone that sliced open your hands.
You watched the blood drip to the dusty ground and laughed, you laughed over the pain you had felt, you laughed over the words of ‘comfort’ that people put forth, you laughed at the life you wasted.
You laughed because you knew that you had nothing left.