These streets we walk on will crumble under the stress we carry under our tongues, and the weight we hold in the syllables that get out. There’s so much talking and it’s so loud. Maybe loud enough to drown out all the sounds we don’t need a language to make?
I was right before until you told me otherwise. I tore down walls that you built. Those bricks were stacked so softly.
The things you can’t take with you…and realize that’s always the case. I won’t live forever, I know now to keep the nerve to love and forget all the shitty things, to forgive but remember there’s more to life than these petty issues, but I’m only human and my pride takes more than 2 years to recover and feel there’s room to clear the air.
It ends up like this every time because you shout and wave your arms and pout and stomp your feet like a baby, and throw your tantrums as if anybody cares. You won’t be a footnote, you won’t be anything.
Was it worth it in the end? Because I’m still here swinging. Was it worth it in the end? Because I’m still here singing.
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