The dust mites like to eat.
The moths like to feast.
I tried to feed them
I tried to give them.
Glory, glory, glory
can you make the gory sight go away?
The mice trickled down my spine
and every time the sound of wet
chewing of paper wrappers under
the counter, I cover my ears.
I can't face the sob story.
You, with your mask, so sly,
Return only when I've said goodbye.
When I'm fine, standing tall and true,
You reappear, like a ghost, out of the blue.
Feb 1, 2024
Feb 1, 2024 at 5:49 PM UTC
The dust mites like to eat.
The moths like to feast.
I tried to feed them
I tried to give them.
Glory, glory, glory
can you make the gory sight go away?
The mice trickled down my spine
and every time the sound of wet
chewing of paper wrappers under
the counter, I cover my ears.
I can't face the sob story.
You, with your mask, so sly,
Return only when I've said goodbye.
When I'm fine, standing tall and true,
You reappear, like a ghost, out of the blue.
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