Quite accustomed to misery and pain,
and in agony -
I ruin anything good,
it seems.

I don't know how to handle happiness.
It overwhelms me with its untimely visits.
Its stay, always short -
and our goodbyes bring me to my knees,
begging for it to stay.

So accustomed to melancholy -
and crying to sleep;
so spoiled with feelings of worthlessness -
I'm unappreciative of anything good,
it seems.

I don't know how to handle a genuine love.
It overwhelms me with its joyful sensation.
Its pleasure, the heart scorching romance;
and I, in my misery and pain,
and on my knees -
hoping for it to stay.

Quite accustomed to loneliness,
and emptiness -
I ruin anything good,
it seems.