You're always the last one to leave
Those dimly lit rooms.
Making sure the last glass makes its way to the table empty.
And every bottle in the place
Has been upside down
At least a few times what a waste.
Is this what's left of you these days?
You're not eighteen anymore.
Five years should have been,
enough time for you to grow up and get over this.
Not too cool to be throwing up all morning sick
from what you might have done or done it with.
if I could take your pain And frame it
hang it on my wall,
Maybe you would never have to hurt it all.
Painting your picture in red and blue.
A portrait bruised just like you
And now you're walking away.
When is enough, finally enough?
Current Mood: okay
Current Music: Sounds of keyboard stroked ; Work