Why?
Why are these feelings in my space?Thoughts come and go, without a resting place.
And when moments appear that I may have found solace,
Tiny cramps bite my center and again I am lost.
There are holes in my sensitivity.
And I wonder why and how this could be,
Even when I was so sure yesterday,
That this distance may shrink one day.
My own desires are strangers
Bringing me flowers to put on a grave
That you designed for me
Why must this be?
Why must this be?
Why won’t you just say, yell, or even scream?
Any reason for such a dark dream.
Any story to lend a settlement in my mind,
Would be a sufficient use of our time.
And yet, still, this wouldn’t reveal the cause of my grief.
For how could such a cause postpone such relief?
How can I unravel myself or expose this tender care,
Without acceptance, without your care to spare?
My own desires are strangers
Bringing me flowers to put on a grave
That you designed for me
Why must this be?
Why must this be?
I am raw inside today.
So I’ve constructed these feelings in such an array.
Would your eyes show translucent concern?
Or maybe recognize a revelation to learn?
I’m so wrapped up in years of a bonding bliss.
It’s such a mystery that I still miss
A smile, a laugh, a witty little phrase.
All replaced with a yearning for days passed away.
My own desires are strangers
Bringing me flowers to put on a grave
That you designed just for me
Why must this be?
Why must this be?
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