If I were to choose a sole point in time,
to prove initial words of so called truth
were nothing more than wasted hope and rhyme,
I'd have more than enough thanks to your youth.
It strains the mind to even ask what was,
when you eagerly spread yourself so thin.
I know what your infatuation does,
It only powers you to crave slit skin.
You seek distractions and indulge in tease,
turning your head to who excites you most.
Time passes slower than in what you please
and despite all your words, lack truth to boast.
You are the reason interest is waste,
to give in to selfishness and bear haste.