Spent

I don't know why I try. Some things will never change. Words don't do a damn thing, and they're all I have left. Madness follows me wherever I go, and it doesn't matter what I say on my way there. I wish for happiness at the end of my verses, but I can't seem to even put together tonight. Every ounce of my energy is spent tonight, and I'm tired. I'm tired of writing. All I get out of it is heartache and misunderstanding. My verses drive me, but I don't know where to take them. I want my weapon back; maybe then I could do what I want.

I'm dead to most of you anyway. What the hell does the rest matter? Life is pain; is it so damn wrong to want some relief?