A nice commodity.
Just a pile of letters, smashed together.
A heart and feeling behind as a meaning,
Is gone as it usually doesn't matter.

1, 2....13...45?
I lost the count of how many times,
I did it. I murdered it's meaning,
I only left cursive lines.

Give me my "sorrys" and "apologies" back,
I just wish I haven't given them away so soon,
If I knew that after those, which were worth a dime to a penny,
Came little useless sounds, that prolonged doom.