I sit here telling stories that no one really ever reads. Asking questions that no one can answer. Spinning truth into whatever justification I can make. You hear me from a distance, crying the same tears. Hiding behind the same make-up I apply every day.
But where is the justice? When do my good deeds mean something? How much longer must my soul toil beneath these chains? For I want to be selfish. I want to break free. Yet the moments of pain that would inflect are simply too much to bear.
So I keep telling stories, I keep living the lies. For what do I want more than to be true. To build a perfect life, out of shear imperfection. For I am nothing more than that innocent child, that lost boy. Stumbling through love like a bull in a china shop.