I miss it.
I miss that something, the drive. To be better for you, drove me to wake up. I see everyone one with someone, and I'm still here, and you're still there. I guess I thought it wouldn't last this long, but every minute passing cuts deeper into this unhealed wound. Why am I complaining though? Pity me. It was my fault anyway. My mind never quiets, unless I'm high. But I have to come back to reality, at some point. Which only ends up hurting more. You listened, I ran. Now I want you to listen, and you're listening, to her.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
Sydne Kilberg"She never looked nice. She looked like art, and art wasn't supposed to look nice; it was supposed to make you feel something." Archives
February 2016
Categories |