Fingers hovered over the keyboard
Typing and deleting unspoken words
As a last resort to save yourself from your own demented mind
You focus on the words
The arrangement, the fluidity
And your mind slowly settles down
As it's distracted by something other than your own thoughts.
But words run out as well as time
Soon they end just like your life
No more tears, crying doesnt help
You already know no-one cares
So why do you still try to impress?
You type in second person
So that you don't directly call yourself out
After all, accepting it means it's all true
All the statements your friends say are 'lies', all the negative thoughts
If you deny them, they're not true right?
They dont define you
but they define me.
