typeracer

On the eve of a day that's forgotten and fake and the trees they await and clouds anticipate the start of a day when we put on our face a mask that portrays that we don't need grace. On the eve of a day that is bigger than us but we open our eyes because we're told that we must and the trees wave their arms and the clouds try to plead, desperately yelling there's something we need. I'm not free, I asked forgiveness three times, same amount that I denied; I three-time MVPed this crime. I'm afraid to tell you who I adore, won't tell you who I'm singing towards.