I Write Poetry

[b]The Death of Self[/b]

There was a time when I dreamed of
A life well lived and full of love
But I don't really dream anymore

Because every time I take a chance
The angels weep and the demons dance
I'm left more empty than before

No matter how much I may want to be
No part of me will ever run free
My soul is bleeding on the floor

Indifferent to the joy and the pain
No difference in the sun and the rain
Life goes on just like before

So even though God knows I've tried
Something important inside me died
I've put my heart on the shelf

So from this dark and ruined place
I watch as the Saints fall from grace
And grieve for the death of self