Taunted by the scars of a better life,
Endless steps with no destination,
No return.
We're all lost in this void of darkness,
Passerby's walking by,
No help from their shallow lives.
They have the audacity to watch others suffer.
We'll each fall down,
And land in crumpled heaps.
The chagrin of pain is our
Silence, our bitter
Lover.
Does the world care?
Not really, they just walk right by.
Each individual is there own,
And yet, so many are too
Similar.
We can feel their burning stares,
Eating away at bleeding heart.
Our uneasiness is unacknowledged,
They're far to interested about
Whether or not things will work out fine for
THEM, when the situation is hardly
even
Dreadful.
A day passes like this often.
Almost every actually.
We remember every previous day
And the Sorrow, whom follows.
She lurks in the depths of your mind,
Lingering in corners for her prey.
Prowling when needed, for all those
Unlucky Clovers.
That's what we are.
Our lives are far from perfection
And what would strike distress in others hearts,
Is our simplest of pleasures.
To put it best, we really are,
Unlucky Clovers.
