It's been ten months since the last time we talked,
         And I sit here wondering why I still give a ****.
I know that you never cared,
         And I'm stupid to think you ever did.

Blossoms at night,
and the faces of people
moved by music.

The artist adds another stroke
Every night

He hates to see his paint
wasted on such an ugly canvas

He tells himself
Maybe tomorrow I wont waste it

But painting has become such a habit
that it seems like he cant stop

until all his paint
is gone

All it took was one look
One memory
One flashback
One feeling
I'm back again
I remember it all.
The sadness
The irritability
The feeling of worthlessness
The feeling of impending death
The breakdown...
I'm back again.
And this time may be the last.