February 18th
Misery lusts. You don't know a thing of just the moment settling in, the moment speaks false words.
Your breath marks the steady, humid air.
(In my room, I am preoccupied with anything I could. I procrastinate my duties, as I neglect planning them).
Your sacred eyes, I hear your lies, I feel your cries.
No sympathy...
Your breath marks the steady, humid air.
(In my room, I am preoccupied with anything I could. I procrastinate my duties, as I neglect planning them).
Your sacred eyes, I hear your lies, I feel your cries.
No sympathy...
♠ ♠ ♠
Lyrics I wrote in my journal on February the 18th.