How can you not know what to do,
When it’s nothing complicated,
Just a matter of the heart?
It’s written very clearly,
As the angels come and save me,
The task of burning out.

It’s nothing of the science,
Of another broke alignment,
Haunting to send an error to the heart,
As you once more make it all frustrating.

There’s no style of writing here.
The taste of a broken tear,
Drips down to the ink and on the severeness,
Of this broken alignment.
It’s not one other blind sentence,
Choking at the splendidness of its creativity.

This passage I’m writing now is,
A metaphor of the whole process,
That occurred when you were rocks and,
It was another misunderstanding.
The work was really simple,
But you thought that it was,
Meant for me and not for you.

Well it’s nothing of the science,
Of another broke alignment,
Haunting to send an error to the heart,
As you once more make it all frustrating.

There’s no style of writing here.
The taste of a broken tear,
Drips down to the ink an on the severeness,
Of this broken alignment.
It’s not one other blind sentence,
Choking at the splendidness of its creativity.

How can you not know what to do,
When it’s nothing complicated,
Just a matter of the heart?
This passage I’m writing now is,
A metaphor of the whole process,
That occurred when you were rocks,
Choking at the splendidness of its creativity.