Picking up the pieces from a life half-lived.
Shoving away the dropped dreams that lay
on the floor.
Pacing the room where you lied to yourself
again and again:
Ashamed, you close the door;
and you think to yourself,
that there could've,
should've been
much,
much more.
And yet you continue to be on the side.
In the backseat of your own life.
You are regret
personified
and it's doubt that sits in the front
that's taking you for a ride
straight down the line
to a grave with nothing written on the headstone.
And before you know it
you've lived out your life
and now you've died
with nothing to show,
nobody that minds
because you
are all
alone.
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 11:07 PM UTC
Picking up the pieces from a life half-lived.
Shoving away the dropped dreams that lay
on the floor.
Pacing the room where you lied to yourself
again and again:
Ashamed, you close the door;
and you think to yourself,
that there could've,
should've been
much,
much more.
And yet you continue to be on the side.
In the backseat of your own life.
You are regret
personified
and it's doubt that sits in the front
that's taking you for a ride
straight down the line
to a grave with nothing written on the headstone.
And before you know it
you've lived out your life
and now you've died
with nothing to show,
nobody that minds
because you
are all
alone.
