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Like how I reach out towards the sky ever-rising from our hands —I look at the traces of chances handed out by life and circumstance and wonder— why do I give to others chances that I wasn't given?
Like how I walk the path laden with thorns and built by beasts looking to devour me —I look at my faded tracks that I took with everything in me and wonder— why do I help others pave their roads when no one helps me pave mine?
Like how I crave for the time so precious it wasn't rewarded to me at all — I look at the edges of the blessings meant for others thinking I deserve a little bit of it too and wonder— why do I give the love that I wasn't given at all?
Like how I pour out my heart on white sheets until they turn black with my thoughts and the void of my soul —I look at the view that people enjoy out of privilege and luck and wonder— why do I let others live their life when I wasn't living mine?
