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Hightide Hotel
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Hello Cruel World
Hey Dave, what's more cliche than pain?
When was the last time that you had something original to say?
Wouldn't you say it's getting old?
Isn't it time you let things go?
Don't you feel you owe it to yourself to take some steps to stop restricting growth?
Don't you remember hope?
I only remember it well.
I guess that's why I dwell in the past,
or at least the last time I was kind to myself.
I retreat to memory, reliving histories in my head,
because it's all that comforts me in stagnancy.
(Reminds me of a time this was worth it.)
Hey Dave, isn't it about time you finally grew that fucking spine?
(Or an even line?)
Doesn't it only make things worse
Writing your agonies down in verse?
Shouldn't you destroy all those notes and rants before they all destroy you first?
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Hasn't it become a curse?
No, I still cling to notes.
The raving rants I wrote are kept close.
They're archived and filed, or memorized in hopes
That they may leave a trail which, backwards, leads to where things went wrong,
And the instructions to repair the pride I broke.
(Cause lord knows, they've got to be good for something)
And so I've cataloged each moment and placed them within a timeline
Composed of thoughts, regrets, and stories that I keep stored within my mind
And I know they may not mean much within the scope and scale of life,
Although, for now, they're all I have, and dammit they're all mine.
Hey Dave,
(When was the last time that you had something original to say?)
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