bag with filthy clothes that smell of deranged violet and fistful of thoughts
breaking down in a million different ways trying to prevent a collision of teardrops.
hanging in there was never so hard
glass was always more fragile to break
my soul was never the one that stops yet
it's higher in someone else's regard,
so I am repeating the same mistake.
the rag stinks of defeat and my mouth carries a taste of someone else's words I can't repeat...