six thousand, three hundred, and sixty six days
and i'm sick of having to explain who i am.
like there has to be a reason for this mess of person i have became to be?
i'm a die hard hopeless romantic
and i'm sick of having to explain who i am.
like there has to be a reason for this mess of person i have became to be?
i mean there are reasons.
but why should you know who i am before i even do?
six thousand, three hundred and sixty six
nostalgic is my middle name
i sleep way too much
i think my heart is turning blue
six thousand
i'm a die hard hopeless romantic
optimistic, introvert.
but these rose colored glasses don't look so well on me
three hundred
i think tupac is still alive
i wear my heart on my sleeve
and i haven't hugged my mom in five years
sixty
i'm a walking bleeding heart
my friends are sick of me being sad
and this scar on my face is a daily reminder of all my imperfections
six
my lips look like cherries, but taste like blood
and i know I'm not broken
i think i'm just a little bent.
six thousand, five hundred, and sixty six days
sorry
i'm just sick of explaining. because i don't even know who i am.