By Arcassin Burnham

Was superstitions about the wrong doings I've gathered up
In my memory to be the victim of my own demise of keeping
Secrets and perpetuating lies to the people that deserve love
even when they don't in hopes to see another day by God's wishes
Making everything seem clear as it was all along in the beginning
Of their births,
Everyday we know our worth,
The last thing we wanna feel is hurt,
Don't end up buried in the dirt,
Without a proper last word,
I feel bad for this poor earth.