Sometimes you left me alone,
Sitting in an empty house,
Where I could think, less than freely.
Only of you, but that's okay,
Because I do that a lot, anyway.
When I sat there, in that house,
And talked to myself,
Maybe I should've told the truth,
But to that, I say no.
I'd rather waste my youth.
I'm a waste of youth, a waste of space,
And you tried to convince me otherwise.
But now you've proven me trivial,
Simply a means to deeper appreciation.
Making me the only guest at love's funeral.
lost my grüve