I think about all the things i could be
and how all those things still wouldn't be enough.
I tell myself that it isn't me
but inside i fear that's all it is.
Because what else do I have to offer?
What is there to me... or to you
after we've stripped down the paint, and torn away the covers.
In our simplest forms, do our pieces fit?
Am I too status quo?
When really that doesn't even exist to me
Are you trying too hard to make sure you don't become
all these things you're scared you'll inevitably be?
I have answers to questions
that don't need to be expressed and haven't been asked.
I'm trying to stay quieter than our past
Nothing helps....
I hope it's true that no feelings ever last.
