Disclaimer: I do not own Newsies. . . yet. But I'll keep you posted. I
do, however, own the poem that's part of the story.
I got nothing to live for, nothing to gain,
No joy from my life, only the pain.
I wish I could just quit. I mean, it's not fair that you can't just stop. Life is like one long poker game, only you can't fold. And you have to bet. And you always lose.
As always, around me the world presses on,
Nothing would change, with me dead and gone.
I mean, what have I ever done that mattered? Absolutely nothing. Sure, I helped out during the strike, but it would have gone on without me. I did nothing that someone else couldn't do. Heck, they could probably do it better than I did.
A small few would mourn, a smaller would cry,
But the feelings of grief would soon pass them by.
The other newsies would be sad for a while, or at least most of them. Some of them might even be happy that I was gone. But not Mush, never Mush. It would hit him the hardest, but in the end he would get over it. He would remember me, at least I hope he would, but he would move on.
I'm too young to die, too old to keep living
I've got nothing to give and yet I keep giving.
I don't care what happens to me anymore. It can't get much worse. But I shouldn't say that, 'cause then it will. It always does. Always will. I feel empty. Well, except for the guilt and regrets. I know I should care and I want to care, but I can't. If I don't care, maybe then it won't hurt so much. But who am I kidding. I'm just hiding. But maybe then I won't have to face anything.
I'm tired of living, but too scared to die,
A coward, a chicken, a freak with one eye.
AN: Geh . . . my angst muse struck. Randomly. It likes to do that. . . and I can't write anything else until it's gone. Anyways. . . Blink was the target this time- I decided to give poor Race a break.
I got nothing to live for, nothing to gain,
No joy from my life, only the pain.
I wish I could just quit. I mean, it's not fair that you can't just stop. Life is like one long poker game, only you can't fold. And you have to bet. And you always lose.
As always, around me the world presses on,
Nothing would change, with me dead and gone.
I mean, what have I ever done that mattered? Absolutely nothing. Sure, I helped out during the strike, but it would have gone on without me. I did nothing that someone else couldn't do. Heck, they could probably do it better than I did.
A small few would mourn, a smaller would cry,
But the feelings of grief would soon pass them by.
The other newsies would be sad for a while, or at least most of them. Some of them might even be happy that I was gone. But not Mush, never Mush. It would hit him the hardest, but in the end he would get over it. He would remember me, at least I hope he would, but he would move on.
I'm too young to die, too old to keep living
I've got nothing to give and yet I keep giving.
I don't care what happens to me anymore. It can't get much worse. But I shouldn't say that, 'cause then it will. It always does. Always will. I feel empty. Well, except for the guilt and regrets. I know I should care and I want to care, but I can't. If I don't care, maybe then it won't hurt so much. But who am I kidding. I'm just hiding. But maybe then I won't have to face anything.
I'm tired of living, but too scared to die,
A coward, a chicken, a freak with one eye.
AN: Geh . . . my angst muse struck. Randomly. It likes to do that. . . and I can't write anything else until it's gone. Anyways. . . Blink was the target this time- I decided to give poor Race a break.