Driving across state lines.
Thought of what you and the kids would like.
So long ago.
With every thought that was undone,
packaged up so well.
(So well)
I'm free now but my mind is a hell.
Took one of the books that we wrote in so long ago.
Is there even a point when there is no one to read it?
No self reflection to ever come of this.
I feel as if it could of never happened.
We try so hard to undo the things we love.
Pulling out, uprooted, departed.
There could of been one time when we thought they were important but we were so wrong and a connection is not worth the sacrifice.
Not anymore.
I'm clawing through the stale book shelves of my mind,
you could say I'm desperate but we're all desperate.
I've given up long ago but I'll never have the guts to admit it to myself. Perpetuation of brain waves, sparking in a line.
Deprivation of desperation.
The sensory's data at a loss,
like a dull blade cutting through the wind.
Carving the block of that post but it's just not in time.
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