we perceive ourselves to be turn gray
draining dreams, and the fragile soul uproots
the golden softer lights on all the
scenes we chose so well to play
Is it all just petty white noise on the street
and in our living rooms
while we are starving for something more
than what lies under pretty wrappers
tiredness starts the countdown
and we won't see the residual burden
that drains our day and leaves us
with phones in our hands
and nothing left to say
No comments:
Post a Comment