Love isn't real, violets aren't blue, and roses die anyway.

I make so many new beginnings,
I doubt there'd ever be an end.

My life’s script keeps changing,
‘Guess the writer is getting over his head.

My new beginnings don't come with the seasons, They are conceived as soon as they wish, and I am convinced as soon as they reach.

I make so many new beginnings,
I don't know where the old ones went.

And once I'm off track on my new path,
I just switch lanes and draft up a new chart.

How can emptiness be so heavy?