So, as I sit here, inhaling pistachios and being mildly if not entirely infuriated over a boy hardly worth my time, my frustrations have poured out over the pages of my owl-covered notebook. "Is it time to share them?" I ask myself.
And you know what, I think it is...
How is it possible that each and every time the right track finds my feet,
Each time I take a step and need not falter furthermore,
How is it possible for such chaotic mess to come here, to me, to meet?
How is it even reality for everything to feel so wrong in my life,
For no reason, no rhyme, no beat and no song?
How is it reality for this to become merely trouble, trouble and strife?
How do I hear things from people's cruel cutting tongues and take them so deeply to heart?
How do the words of one never as fine as those ones in my past,
How do they cut me so deeply, how do they twist me, to play that ever predictable part?
How do I fall so swiftly below the fingertips of a loving lover's liar's lie?
How do I descend beneath their words until I myself am nigh?
And you know what, I think it is...
How is it possible that each and every time the right track finds my feet,
Each time I take a step and need not falter furthermore,
How is it possible for such chaotic mess to come here, to me, to meet?
How is it even reality for everything to feel so wrong in my life,
For no reason, no rhyme, no beat and no song?
How is it reality for this to become merely trouble, trouble and strife?
How do I hear things from people's cruel cutting tongues and take them so deeply to heart?
How do the words of one never as fine as those ones in my past,
How do they cut me so deeply, how do they twist me, to play that ever predictable part?
How do I fall so swiftly below the fingertips of a loving lover's liar's lie?
How do I descend beneath their words until I myself am nigh?
