The songs sing like venom in your ears. With rhythm, rhymes, and so called reasons. The treasons curse like poison in your ears. With purpose, plans, and long lost prayers. 

Copy and paste all the parts that I want to be on top of the parts that I am, my brain computer overloaded, guess I’m stuck as Frankenstein.

I don’t know anything about love. I don’t know anything about hearts, except when myocarditis starts. Pink hearts weren’t all over my notebook, neither were another’s last name behind mine. But still I let my mind go crazy over illusions, things based on circumstance and coincidence.