I am the author of my life.
i'm writing in pen and I can't rub out the mistakes.
If i could start again in life, I would repeat all my mistakes.
They make us who we are in this world.
Making changes everyday, but it seems so empty, I try so hard, but I am only a man.
How much longer can my brow damn the beads of sweat before they sting my eyes? Like time,
has shown me, so many times before. How much longer can my will last me throughout this lifetime?
I struggle to find who I am anymore, I know now that who I amis better than who used to be.
If this all i am, then so be it, this is all I can be.
All I can be.
There are many things that aren't what they seem in this world, friendship is the best example of these.
I find myself questioning more and more every single day.
How much longer can we hold our brothers to these flames?
And the people who have meant so much to us?
