As I try not to think of the storm, I’ll try not to think about my being becoming so worn.
It’s a relief I’m no longer so torn.
But I can’t take the torment, what’s left in store?
Maybe I’m not golden but I still have a conscience.
Maybe I want to get up but I already lost it.
Maybe I want to breathe some life into my being, but this petty ******* makes everything hard to keep conceiving.
So as I try to pick myself up off the ground, I’ll try to find a happier sound.
Maybe I’ll find someone who wants me around.
But until then I’ll keep hiding until I’m found.