From time to time I hit the same wall,
Regret, return, run back where I've started.
Read the same lines, hear the same sounds,
Every symbol draws my look towards the centre.

Seems each time a bit more faded,
My paint is slowly wearing off.
The pieces combine, but not so brightly,
As before I once with impatience tore them apart.

From time to time I get the same hit,
Regret, renew and act more mature.
See the same signs, go the same way,
Every piece calls my attention to heed them.

Looks each time a bit more random,
The touch of lines come articulate.
These old wounds are, not the last ones,
And soon, I feel the need to hide beneath the edge.