All these pieces and not enough space to hold them all
All these guilts and no one to confess them to
All these words and no poet around to marvel
All these potentials and no motivation to fulfill them.

All these sadness and not enough time to carve them into art
All these emptiness and this 5-9 job
All these numbness and this full blown party
All these familiar faces and not a single friend.

All these laughter and no echo of happiness from within
All these glorification and anticlimatic reality
All these walls and no windows and door to get in
All these things to hold on to and there's your memories.

All these raining and you're still caught up in a draught,
All these homes, and you'd rather lay on the road
All these pretty things, and the raw, unadulterated you
All these lingering silences, and no peace.

All these blooms and the graveyards' laments,
All these flutters of heart and the outrageous mess it makes.