Because No Rose Is As Rosy As The One In A Bunch Of Sticks.
Because it won't stop hurting, You make it stop existing. Because it won't be the same, You tell yourself it was always lame. Because no one sees what you have become, You be, who you never were. The mornings don't start with chirping sparrows anymore, It’s the drilling of ground, opposite my window. A new building will rise, just like one fine day the building I live in did. I wake up cursing them, "rascals took away my view", Just like the old guy in the old building next to mine did. And because no one ever stops cursing, what is happening will happen. I thought I was making a difference. Rather I was rendered speechless, When they asked me, "to whom?" I thought I was getting better, But I only got more confused. I want to breath, But I keep forgetting. I want to feel, But I keep dismissing. And now the only thing I wait to see, are the pink skies before the storm. Because no rose is as rosy as the one in a bunch of sticks.