My rhymes, they chime.
The truth between the lines.
My time, short lived.
Inside of my mind;
I’m grime.
I want my scrubbing bubbles-
My troubles always double when you
Try to wash me away.
And I, will always stay.
An ancient crime of whine
I shall present to you.
But what would it matter?
You always play the victim of abuse,
And misuse.
You dilute the minute
Necessities you think you don’t need.
But when they’re gone,
You find it hard to breathe.
Mar 28, 2019
Mar 28, 2019 at 7:44 PM UTC
My rhymes, they chime.
The truth between the lines.
My time, short lived.
Inside of my mind;
I’m grime.
I want my scrubbing bubbles-
My troubles always double when you
Try to wash me away.
And I, will always stay.
An ancient crime of whine
I shall present to you.
But what would it matter?
You always play the victim of abuse,
And misuse.
You dilute the minute
Necessities you think you don’t need.
But when they’re gone,
You find it hard to breathe.
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