I see myself rather like an old discarded dishrag.
It's so shameful of me: I like you.
Can you squeeze me into an empty page of your diary and psychologically save me?
So the life I have made May seem wrong to you But, I've never been surer It's my life to ruin My own way.
You are a work of art.
I'm tired again, I've tried again, and now my heart is full. And I just can't explain...so I won't even try to.