I saw something pump in my hands
Is it my heart? It cannot be
The old reason is fleeting.
Sick ghosts aren't healing.
Affection shot her nasty arrows
Using my heart strings.
Perhaps that's why it's on the floor
Defeated and dead.
Where do your words begin,
Have I gone mad, did I sin.
If I search for it
I do it blunt and bare.
No old ghost can haunt it
Or taunt it.
As your doubt settles right
Where your heart used to be
You blame me...
Tell you what, I take the blame.
It's always the same
Story again.



--Eleanor Rigby