People bring you to the realization that you’re too grave,
But you couldn’t be more satisfied.
The words that come out never seem to sound the way you intended.
We go back to those familiar voices that comforted our youth,
Hoping we still had some within us.
Let’s continue to provoke the end,
And cry when it’s here.
Or even better;
Ponder upon others personal lives,
That we could only dream of knowing.
The sensitivity makes us miss out on so much.
Your skepticism affects your own value in life.
In the end our souls are ghosts,
Waiting to be told what to believe