†ráñšìtørÿ

laying in the cold, thinking up a story, 17 years old, about being tranistory. and here they, assume everything's good, and that i'm okay, and i wishing it could. be the start, of something new, where my part, is better than you. to get lost, leaving you hopeless, all for no cost, just to clean up my mess. 17 years ago, with no hope, reborn tomorrow, into a new life elope. because im diffrent, and not the same, really hellbent, on having someone to blame. but there never was, and never will be, the only ones are i, myself, and me. born like you, we were no transitory, and in the end too, becuase our lives are just a story. written out in black, ink so cold, for our imaginations lack, that stunning gold. our stories dull, dimlight, and sad, becuase our teenage years are a lull, that doesn't make the story half bad. too bad before, our time, in forlklore... these stories chimed. we're nothing new, we're nothing gory, we're not one of a few, we're no tranistory. xox Kyelle