I'm starting to think that every day is the same. That I missed the plot, and all the scenes came and changed. What happened to having nothing to prove for every night I've spent all alone in my room? Making war on my own self worth. At a loss that no one can afford. I'm starting to believe that all joy is measured under the weight of regret. Stored and Strung from every single person I have ever met. (What if) I crashed my car off the side of a bridge to feel whats like to be alive; not just to live. Spent the night at the bottom of a lake, collecting dust for just one hour of sleep. I have a knack for slipping through the cracks in the floor, just as soon as my problems won't face themselves anymore. My own routine. My own selfish encore. I've picked apart everything that meant something to me. Picked apart, picked apart. I've picked apart everything that meant something to me. Memories of home, of all my friends, and family. Every day is the same. No rose buds, Just early graves.
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