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What was I supposed to feel when I'm tired chasing things that won't be mine? Upon screaming the same thing over and over —what was I supposed to feel when no one was listening on the other side—all along?
Only the promise of death and the temporariness of it all has been keeping me sane Do you know now—how I kept fighting even though I'm empty? It's because I know that as discomfort is temporary —poverty is everlasting and as pain is just for a while —death is a point of no return
So what was I supposed to feel when I spent my life believing that there are good things meant for me? Upon wishing for the same thing over and over —what was I supposed to be when the world has been asunder?
I wished to know —which promise of death and the temporariness of it all should I keep holding on to Do you know now—how I kept speaking as though someone was listening all along? It's because I don't know —what was I supposed to feel when I've lived but all this time I've been breaking?
