Better Known As Waste Of Time
So maybe only the priveleged few have seen the tears that so often adorn my face, at least in the seclusion of my own persecution.
You've never really been alone until the people have left you for dead, no longer finding the same joy in your smile as once before.
I guess alot has been lost, and honestly I thought I couldnt get any lower.
I'm a Fucking Idiot.
I would say again there is no where to go but up, but when you're writing the letters continue on down the endless scroll.
I should stick to writing with pen and paper, at least then I sometimes I find myself at the top of the page again.
You wouldn't know... would you.
Suppose that teasing myself each night with the horrendous scene of our hands intertwined isn't the best way to get over this.
Nor does it help when each new harlot gives you the faintest battering of her seemingly innocent eyes.
I could chalk up the whole wall with my failures, and show santa a list of names longer that set me up for them.
Blame never solely lies in one soul, it tends to stay near an entire population of people who can't help but lie.
What good is the truth, especially when spoken, no one is willing to lend an ear.
Should I ever decide to expose truth again, I'll solely express distaste in my own words.
With as many 'I's on the page you'd think my thoughts would be floating near the selfish.
However it seems to linger amongst every person who's traded me in for something else, people who meant the world to me.
And without them you feel nothing.
The ice that dulls the pain has become the coldness of the world.
You've never really been alone until the people have left you for dead, no longer finding the same joy in your smile as once before.
I guess alot has been lost, and honestly I thought I couldnt get any lower.
I'm a Fucking Idiot.
I would say again there is no where to go but up, but when you're writing the letters continue on down the endless scroll.
I should stick to writing with pen and paper, at least then I sometimes I find myself at the top of the page again.
You wouldn't know... would you.
Suppose that teasing myself each night with the horrendous scene of our hands intertwined isn't the best way to get over this.
Nor does it help when each new harlot gives you the faintest battering of her seemingly innocent eyes.
I could chalk up the whole wall with my failures, and show santa a list of names longer that set me up for them.
Blame never solely lies in one soul, it tends to stay near an entire population of people who can't help but lie.
What good is the truth, especially when spoken, no one is willing to lend an ear.
Should I ever decide to expose truth again, I'll solely express distaste in my own words.
With as many 'I's on the page you'd think my thoughts would be floating near the selfish.
However it seems to linger amongst every person who's traded me in for something else, people who meant the world to me.
And without them you feel nothing.
The ice that dulls the pain has become the coldness of the world.