At
twenty-two,
I can’t afford spending my life with you.
And once I hit forty-four,
I’ll make sure to never cross the front door.
Half way down,
holding a glass in which I always drown,
waste the nights on sin,
just to hold everything within.
And now at thirty-three,
I hope I’m happy with me.
Praise the mistakes and tethered sounds,
hold me down cause I overstepped the bounds.
No comments:
Post a Comment