All that I can hear are my own echos
Leaving me with nought but familiar grief.
Even though these feelings should be let go
It still fuels a part of my own beliefs.
The silence always feels like a fresh cut,
But how many times have I felt this sting?
The searing pain of your cigarette butt
Such a feeling would be a novel thing.
Grant me some dignity in attention
If you plan on using me like a toy
Though you told me that wasn't your intention
It always feels like something you enjoy
Yet hearing your words formed a reliance
I beg you now for more than this silence
