Writing

the party's over;

i'll walk myself home,

silent on the stairs,

wake up the next morning,

i'll lie and say i don't care. 

the party's over;

you don't know what goes on

My life is a play whose writer has forgotten their motivation. The lines of the script are blurred, somewhat resembling the bricks on the wall I sit beside now.

I write this now, in loving memory of a man who has not yet left us.

I missed my bus today. There I was at the stop, on main street; I had a croissant—chocolate—and I had my bag and I had a plan which consisted of getting on the bus, sitting down, and getting off at my stop.

The past

Full of mishaps

Full of mistakes

Full of mess ups

Full of errors

Contradictory

We should learn about

All the things we did wrong

So we can get better

But some people

Verse 1
The sun sets slow on this fading day,
I see your faces, but they feel far away.
Laughter lingers in the hollow air,
But something’s shifting like you’re not really there.