You're an afterthought you had on mossy rocks,
After touching the flowing water you were not.
My home is knowing nothing new can hurt.
A once explosive chest now decidedly inert.
Forget your parties, clubs and bars,
Your unthinking smiles turning to scars.
What's so great about talking circles endlessly?
All those late night phone bills, do they mean anything?
I can either live now, or cup hands for sympathy.
Supposedly, but I won't have you pity me.
Don't call it stubborn, it's hardly a choice,
When I can't hear the truth trying to smoothen your voice.
Make a path and stick to it, you indecisive hypocrite.
"I'm young and free," you say, as if attempting
To hide the fact your drying hands are empty