It took alot of time to get it right
And when it was complete I discovered it was all wrong.
Can there ever be an end to a book left sitting open?
Yet for some strange reason, the pages refuse to turn.
I've thought about it almost every night
And the same thoughts normally continue through the day
Today turns to tomorrow and before I know it, it's next week
And I'm still dwelling on the same fucking thing.
Wasted breath, wasted time, wasted cash, change of mind.
Setting sun, time is waiting for no one.
I've got to let this go, it's time, I'm done.
I wonder why it isn't called a crime
Cause nothing hurts more and nothing seems more unfair.
I wonder why I believe in you.
I wonder how I found this fucking mess.
I'm picking up the peices again.