Sometimes I forget to speak when it's needed. My brain races with words, but my lips remain concrete. I forcibly train my heart to stay alive on its own, I don't see the point when to stop its only pleaded. My wistful claims for love has been a conclusive feeling, but I've only hoped for it to be true. My indecisiveness brings most down to their knees, only because I'm never devoted to my work. I start it, then I end it.
Follow me along the mossy side of my hurt, you'll see what I mean when I try to breathe. You'll see that I'm not like others, I'm not like most who act normal. Appearances seem ideal, but would I know whether or not I'm real? After a while I begin to realize it was never really worth it to feel.
