My tears have begin to dry,
but I can still hear the whispers as I walk by.
Though loud as a dog's bark,
it's as quiet as mouse's yawn.
They see me, but not my pain.
They see color, but not my love.
Have we ourselves fallen into disaster,
or is it I that is not addicted to this drug.
Days and Days
Weeks and Weeks
as they turn into
Months and Months
as I Age into Years over Years.
Am I really who I thought I was,
but am I really what I thought I was not?
Are we even who we see ourselves as,
or are we who we see ourselves as not?
Have we began to fall,
or is it just but I?
Am I the lonely bistander,
or am I?