Sick and tired.

 Epileptic from the pain.
Too little crossroads.
 Emptiness fills void.
 No one I feel I can be myself.
 No one who loves me for me.
 I’m an actress in disguise. 
Sorrow is my life.
 I envy those who have family. 
Mine is torn to grains. 
What I can call my own is myself, 
and I doubt it. 
What is this life?
 It is full of hypocrisy. 
Full of trash.
 Full of gilded dung.