Who would’ve ever guessed the white bird was clever enough to stay in the sky, wondering what the point was to a year, let alone a season. Half your nights inevitably turn into day, the other half, aren’t as lucky. You’ve got to keep the momentum because if you stop, even just once, your hair will turn gray. Shooting stars are really falling stars and bits of crumbling hearts, but they only exist because we’ve played so many parts. If sanity can be kept when the rain and the wind shake hands, it should be a cakewalk.
You’re a catch within impossible odds, a rare one at that. you’re a disturbed solution to a disturbed equation. If the ocean waves enough, it’ll eventually find it’s shore. Old ways are making me me, and making me love, but they are making me dizzy because I don’t want to be me, and I don’t want to love. Somehow, you made a crater on me without leaving a print or a trace, quite possibly the only rose in all of history that didn’t have thorns, but I bleed anyway.