I’ve been awake for a while studying the ceiling tiles because I know they know about me. Cold feet in the hall and words scribbled on the wall but they lack the legibility to mean a god damn thing to me.
It’s not much but it’s all I have; dancing to the rhythm of a world gone mad cause you said I was always no good, you said I was always no good.
I’ve been spinning for a while on a cerebral turnstile that’s convinced me Im forgettable because the way you left the room left no room to assume that you where ever coming back again or that you’d ever want to.
It’s not much but it’s all I have; dancing to the rhythm of a world gone mad cause you said I was always no good, you said I was always no good.
Is this really how it ends? We just never speak again? Become voices in the wind can we keep this to ourselves, because you know i’d let you in if you found my door again but I know I don’t deserve to be much more than a dead man. For so long you were all I had, the only thing good in a world gone bad.
So If it makes you feel better to believe I hurt you on purpose than I have no issue pretending I deserve this.
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