I
need somebody's help.
Why
do they call this
a
merry go round, when
I'm
sick of the turning?
Get
me the f... out'a
here!
Heaven
knows I'm miserable
now,
said love, said faith.
More
is he the good,
that
whistled to me,
and
filled my mind
with
fateful and sad symphony.
Colder
than,
an
Arctic winters purge,
is
the reality I'm facing here.
Time
lost on pity,
wasted
on days of pain,
on
stirrings from an
empty
heart.
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