It’s funny how I make my life so interesting, yet tiring. How many have I hurt? I can’t remember the wounds I cut. Actually, there’s too many. And all are equally deep. Some admires me how did I manage to get the numbers. To be honest, I’m not proud at all. In fact I’m tired of this why can’t I just settle down?
Why can’t I just be some guy over there who thirst for hug? Where I am abusing it? In the time the time I spent with all these so called interesting life is nothing. I am to be forgotten in others, as it is what I should be treated. I’m a murder and a thief.
How many hearts I have pierced and how many have I stolen? I lost count. As I am not a good person, at all.
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