The fabrics of our lives,
come undone as we get older.
Maybe that explains,
why some of us get colder.

I'm not really sure,
how to put these words together.
I'm just hoping when I'm done,
that I feel a little better.

There's a piano right in front of me,
but I can't play a chord.
No melody, no timing,
just me banging away at the keys.

They've been telling me that everything,
is going to be alright.
They've been telling me that everything,
get's better with time.

But I'm living here on borrowed time.
I don't know how much longer I have.

If I sit and wait, I'll waste away,
I'd much rather fight for each day,
I'd much rather fight off the pain,
than sit here hoping it stops.

But for the time,
I guess I'll write,
about everything,
every step of the fight.

If I live to tell,
this tragic tale,
these words will matter to someone,
who feels the same.