I started writing poetry in my 9th-grade year. Out of all forms of writing, I felt I'd gained more from poetry than any other.
Was she a mother in wait? Of a son who left to die, Was she a mother in wait? Of a son who left to die,
Is the hope that one day those lost will figure things out. Is the hope that one day those lost will figure things out.
She sees those faces every once in a while, Smiling in comfort of that place they held dear, She sees those faces every once in a while, Smiling in comfort of that place ...
Don't get so far ahead that you can't see what's up next Don't get so far ahead that you can't see what's up next
Then on a road of destruction, they will be forever bound. Then on a road of destruction, they will be forever bound.
If you stop giving them chances, then where do you think they will turn? If you stop giving them chances, then where do you think they will turn?
Catch my attention! Catch my attention!
When you find the lines are blurred, Between the truth and a fairytale, When you find the lines are blurred, Between the truth and a fairytale,
When nothing ever seems to satisfy, The ones you must serve, When nothing ever seems to satisfy, The ones you must serve,
Those who once matched our rhythm, Those who at one point held steadfast, Those who once matched our rhythm, Those who at one point held steadfast,