I don’t like who I have become,
It never use to be this way.
My words are guns loaded to paper with a merciless trigger.
I look at myself from the world’s perspective and feel so ashamed of what I’ve done.
I own the thoughts and the words that have been spoken,
But I never could understand that the effects of such actions would spiral from it
All I have are the ruins of my disaster, ready to be taken and rebuilt.
Words are freight trains headed for the wreck, who knows what will happen next.
I hardly have a clue about writing poems, so your critiques are very much appreciated!
