Hours become distressed and tiresome
In all your filth
You were some what admire some
You took truth and distorted it
Right before this poets eyes
I was an idea stolen
A compliment sealed with in a comment
I wandered about
In a young mans season of doubt
I wrote sing songs
To sing my way home
I was a walk of lies
Before I became this poets eyes
I couldn’t tell her goodbye
So I wrote her a note
Accustoms of a hopeless man, shy
I couldn’t tell her the truth
So I whispered to her good night
Eased away her helpless sighs
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