She's in the mafia But she's a nun and Oh my she's on the run And the cops are on the Way oh mafia nun Your soul is stained with sin But in the end it's heaven's Grace you'll win.
I traced my lips, until I felt yours press against them. Fingers brushed my neck, then your touch lingered there— as if you were here, so close, so near.
The words build up inside like a tumor, Ignorance will make them mean— Spare my heart / spare my lungs The song 'What If' is on repeat. Regrets of the past / fears of the future / anxiety of the present A tumor never leaves— Healing is temporary. Coughing up blood / letters interlaced in red It’s a disease to keep it inside, It’s a curse to let them fly— I must write outside of my skin.
Genuine friends are much rarer than the fingers on one hand — as only a handful can be counted upon. They could be as numerous as the stars scattered across a moonlit expanse, yet only a select few truly cast their glow upon our lives.