Miserable idea

The world is a painful place.
We carry guilt, the heavy weight,
Running until numb in false race,
With empty spaces left innate.

Some are always loved by fate,
While I bear all the sorrow.
I'm shaking, smothering near saint gates,
Becoming paint, of your tomorrow.

You left me stranded in the past,
Where tears are destined to remain,
We're not the ones to fall that fast,
Lost in longing, feeling pain.

Would you be here till the end?
Or my future is defined?
What if we're just a miss,
Struggling to identify it?

Season of falling