What can I say?
There's so much to write down. Just, it's hard to piece my thoughts together. So much remorse...
I'd like to think I was a good person, we all would. No one wants to be the bad guy, the bastard, the one you hope gets what he deserves. But, as it stands now, it seems that I am that man. Suppose fate is funny like that. So is kharma ...
So I've struggled this far, survived and came back from across countless miles only to find my existance in ruin. Even now as my fingers glide across these muck-ridden keys, I wonder why I'm here... here and actually giving a shit about this and anything else.
The tears don't come so easily anymore. I suppose it's just a phase, really. You get older and as more dissappointments rise, you become almost cold, uncaring to what should be anquish and most certainly sorrow.
Or maybe I've come to terms that the thing that I had built as my beacon of hope and all that flashy good stuff is gone and I'm no better then the shit I find unpleasantly beaten dead into the heel of my boot.
I've done wrong to so many. I barely remember names, only faces and the ones that I find still, I try to bury deep and hope that it starves and becomes nothing as the rest have. I am not friends with my memories.
I find little left in this world. Nothing past the pathetic drugs and alcohol that'll burn the remaining senses from deluted mind. Nothing for me, really... There isn't. I've dug this hole too far, it's my grave now. Time'll pass and I will too.
Funny how I promised to love your memory.
Funny how I promise to love you and treat you better if I had you again.
Funny how I broke that promise ...
Funny how I promise that again, only knowing that I can't keep it.
Funny how I'll promise myself that I'll leave, never to return again.
Funny how I'll betray even myself.
I'd like to think I was a good person, we all would. No one wants to be the bad guy, the bastard, the one you hope gets what he deserves. But, as it stands now, it seems that I am that man. Suppose fate is funny like that. So is kharma ...
So I've struggled this far, survived and came back from across countless miles only to find my existance in ruin. Even now as my fingers glide across these muck-ridden keys, I wonder why I'm here... here and actually giving a shit about this and anything else.
The tears don't come so easily anymore. I suppose it's just a phase, really. You get older and as more dissappointments rise, you become almost cold, uncaring to what should be anquish and most certainly sorrow.
Or maybe I've come to terms that the thing that I had built as my beacon of hope and all that flashy good stuff is gone and I'm no better then the shit I find unpleasantly beaten dead into the heel of my boot.
I've done wrong to so many. I barely remember names, only faces and the ones that I find still, I try to bury deep and hope that it starves and becomes nothing as the rest have. I am not friends with my memories.
I find little left in this world. Nothing past the pathetic drugs and alcohol that'll burn the remaining senses from deluted mind. Nothing for me, really... There isn't. I've dug this hole too far, it's my grave now. Time'll pass and I will too.
Funny how I promised to love your memory.
Funny how I promise to love you and treat you better if I had you again.
Funny how I broke that promise ...
Funny how I promise that again, only knowing that I can't keep it.
Funny how I'll promise myself that I'll leave, never to return again.
Funny how I'll betray even myself.