The Question of

I can not help but think,
In this air so cold,
I'm being pushed to the brink,
Of the regrets I hold.

I have nothing left to show,
To this world except,
My problems that I know,
And all the promises I never kept.

Why didn't I ever believe,
That empty words were not enough,
In my sadistic reprieve,
I am left with the question of:

Just who am I to live today,
So thrashed and scattered?
Is it really meant to end this way?
Have I ever mattered?