Why would I start now when I know I won’t make the mark?
If I had to choose between truth and a lie, would I choose a whitewashed lie?
Or would it be the bitter poison to corrode my heart in a beat, a heap of ashes, borne from my choices
Wrong turns around the road, like the traveller gone astray in the mountains of somewhere
I try to write and I keep writing, words don’t cut it so why should I try?
Everyone hides in their walled castles, manned by what nots on all sides
I could name them all for you, one is my companion, called something something
It’s the pain of the pinky toe, it’s the flutter of a love letter lost to the wind
It’s the heavy burden of nothing, and ‘I’m fine’s that I hold on to