Because lying here is lonely,
And your thoughts are unheard of,
In the dead sea of white noise,
Interrupting my brainwaves constantly.
Labelled as a lyric,
Read like a verse,
Sung like a hymn,
I am not a storybook.
But yet you find me so predictable,
Readable,
Mouldable,
I am disappointed with my inability to be refreshing and fun.
Perhaps that's why I always sing the same old songs,
Because it's the simple things which make me smile,
Like seeing you smile,
Or hearing you stifle a song.
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