The best morning ever turned upside down to the least thing to remember
The bowl’s been worn down to a plate
Drunk on love or sober on hate
Missing the person who hurt her most
Why does she go about her day
She wings her lines
In a playwright
Of her life
Too bad it’s not written for her
That’d be easier, huh
If our lives were connect the dots
We’re fortunate enough to draw our own stars
Paint our own pictures
Roll our own clay
But how much easier it’d be to live someone else’s life
But she looks into his eyes
And there it is- the emptiness grasps her
He looks at her face
Misses the passion in her eyes
She held a knife to his throat
He didn’t give a ****
So she gave up
But couldn’t forget
The flowers he gave or the heart he took
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 2:37 PM UTC
The best morning ever turned upside down to the least thing to remember
The bowl’s been worn down to a plate
Drunk on love or sober on hate
Missing the person who hurt her most
Why does she go about her day
She wings her lines
In a playwright
Of her life
Too bad it’s not written for her
That’d be easier, huh
If our lives were connect the dots
We’re fortunate enough to draw our own stars
Paint our own pictures
Roll our own clay
But how much easier it’d be to live someone else’s life
But she looks into his eyes
And there it is- the emptiness grasps her
He looks at her face
Misses the passion in her eyes
She held a knife to his throat
He didn’t give a ****
So she gave up
But couldn’t forget
The flowers he gave or the heart he took