I thought of love.
I think of times,
and all the things
that used to be.
Like people
I used to see,
and faces
I used to love.
Used to love.
Am I used to love?
I am the pain.
Yes, I do believe...
I must have loved.
Torn pages.
Worn refrain.
Numbered.
Named.
I must be special,
but all efforts
seem so lame.
Is this the lesson
kept from our brain?
We just see
we're all unique.
The scythe
clears all
the same.
I tend to wonder
what will occur.
I feel the thunder
talk to me.
For I believe
a part of me,
and all of you
are gonna share
the same
damn view.
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