What life is this?
They should warn you when you're young.

Am I alone in this?

I have a heart that's open
and so often, find it broken.

What time is this?

I have no clocks.
In rooms made out of bricks,
rubber necked and split.
Time was something I cared for long ago
when hope was still my gift.

Is it wrong to feel this drift?
I smile at faking faces
with the hopes that they might miss
the apathy persist.