And I'm really an hour ahead and you're in a state of denial
Your words laced with the remains of sober thoughts
But it's the stench of the truth that pulls through
Reminding
But leaving me lost in translation
Like those misplaced love songs
And stolen letters
Never reaching their intended place of acceptance
A broken limb being held together with string but what you really need is a shotgun
Only it's one with too few bullets
Those bullets that hurt but never ****