I'm exhausted from the fallout
of this bittersweet symphony.
I'm falling away to time with
this long clinging misery.

I've grown weary of writing
such dreary poems.
How many times can I express
how much I feel so alone?

If nothing is going to change,
maybe the problem is me?
But I'm as complicated as a math problem
that asks to find the x to the c.

So what happens from here?
After I'm worn out from writing this grime.
Do I give up the only thing
that I ever saw worthy of my time?