Why I write
When the ground is incredibly cold and the night is calm
But my mind roars like waves of torrent
And my wounds reopen in rewinding frames
From hours, to days, to weeks and years ago,
When imperfection, in its not so perfectness rubs it's muddy hands in my face
Reminding me that I'm a walking mass of perfect, not so perfect,...
But my mind roars like waves of torrent
And my wounds reopen in rewinding frames
From hours, to days, to weeks and years ago,
When imperfection, in its not so perfectness rubs it's muddy hands in my face
Reminding me that I'm a walking mass of perfect, not so perfect,...