None of this.

In the window of the house, where i grew,
I came to face to face with a boy i once knew.

I cannot make this puzzle fit.
Each tired word lacks simple wit.
The garbage blows silent, down the street.

The mail hasn't been for seven days.
The silence grows, but still i wait,
I'm addicted, and I've barley had a taste.


I've tasted her lips, I'm terminally ill.
The carousel is spinning and the flowers petals wilt.

I'm reading faces on the train,
I feel my loss has been their gain,
and every where i go, their focus waits.

The wind blows the dirt off concrete streets,
I just hum along and move my feet,
and know that none of this is worth remembering.



There's a story told, about a boy that grew,
who lost the only person that he thought he knew.

Each puzzle piece he slowly fit.
He learned to love his simple wit.
But the garbage still blows silent, down the street.

The wind blows the dirt off concrete streets,
I just hum along and move my feet,
and know that none of this is worth remembering.