A lot is on my mind, I can't sleep sometimes.
The grind of life, and love so blind, I go insane from all these dimes.
I searched myself, trying to find a reason to be kind.
Like an old book on the shelf, the mystery of my design, I'm waiting for someone to comprehend my rhyme.
But I'll never see anything turn into fruition.
No one will open that old book.
It'll sit there forever never opened again.
No one will take the time to look.