they dont love me at all,
it's no wonder why so,
and the less i get back,
means the less that i show.
it's been said many times,
many ways from our throats:
its the love that we lost,
that we passionately hold.
and we shuffle through seasons,
then suffer the cold.
we live 25 years feeling 40 years old,
built on longing and pain,
and the lies that we're told.
but this rant has gone on,
and my passion will fold.
but don't pity me
comfort me,
leave me alone.
cause the person i've been,
are the faults of my own.