i sit on the bus

carving loss into the frost

staring at this child

he's in control, it's obvious

that he's afraid and maybe shocked

and another year, uneventful

full of this ache so cold and dull

but i know that in another

things are going to give

then will come the failure

that i will forget inside of

some empty girl, while she lays there

and i try to convince her that i care

it takes a lot of skill to make my self feel so sick

and it takes a lot of love to turn a sad story tragic

this afternoon i napped and dreamt of reading

a book

that disturbed me

with its bleak truth

and decontruction of the soul and the human personality

and i still remember most of what was written in it

i don't think i'll tell anyone what it said

Moi, j'avais jamais rien dit. Rien

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