The Boy Who Didn’t Choose Me
I guess it is in my head where destiny has decided to write your name. Forever wondering about the day when it’ll no longer be it or why I have no say. Doesn’t matter if I move north or south; you’re still one of those memories that stand tall and proud. And I can’t, for the life of me, understand why in history life chose the boy who didn’t choose me.
How many other hearts have you broken? Oh, right; you wouldn’t know because we all know you like to pretend you’re a saint. Forgive me, my friend, but the line is long. We all standing here know your game. Or that you have no shame. Shall we fall again? Only time will say. Because, though it spins around us, to you life stays the same.
In the absence of logic, the heart will take a stand. But I’ll always object, as it is wrong, a total wasteland. Well, almost always wrong—fun memories remain. But memories are what they are; not necessarily a way to happiness. In fact, maybe it’s just this past that keeps promoting pettiness in your favor. And it feeds your shadiness, your shamelessness.
