Everyday is an achievement, if I can get through it.

Every hour drags on, like my dull heart beating.

Every second feels like a waste, slowly getting closer to my end.

What the point of breathing, if my breath is going to be cut short?

What's the point in moving, if my movements will be forgotten?

What's the point in living, if we're all going to die?

The clouds wearily fill the sky; their unhappiness becoming a negativity in everyone's day.

I sit and watch the rain pointlessly race down from the sky.

The sun tries to peek out from behind the cloud, but never wins the fight.

The rainbow I wish for will always be hidden from sight.

At the end of the day, we're just trying our best.