There are two versions of myself,
The one who tumbled from grace
And fell in love,
And the other to decline your
Voice and simply rise above.
But what version am I this day?
One who asks just where you been
Or the other contemplating the sin.
Yet I cannot ask with truthful intent
Because I know what's been lost,
What's been lent, and what just ain't.
So, I'll forge these whiskey dreams
Consisting of abstract colors framing
Resplendent screams and sorrows.
So, look away, batted lashes wafting
Fluttered vocal chords and **** blows,
Crafting with feelings turning cold.
Let's take back those old thoughts,
All tired and fraught with worry.
There are versions of myself,
The one who tumbled, the one who fell,
One that rose above, and one with worry.
But what version am I this day?
But what version, I do not know.