Wondering why, when, who, or what could've been.
On the edge of my seat where the inspirations rhyme.
Killing expectations because of everything we've seen.
I have tried starting from the scratch.
None of it stopping me from staying in my bed.
Down to the bottom of an unlockable latch.
Side to side where she painted her world red.
Words are you filled the jar with predictable lies.
All around the earth's atmosphere.
Voices meant to be written instead of being wise.
Every inch withdraws ourselves just to make it clear.
Since it's apparently useless facing the truth.
I realize that I'm always going back to square one.
Only to find that there is no fountain of youth.
Nevertheless we both agree that what's done is done.
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