Think I might be lonely, or hungry, not sure.
I pace once to the mirror and then to the door.
There is an ailment in the way that I move
My mother might see it in my cheek hollows and grooves
Dissatisfaction with life at it's best
Green highlighter shouts, small loneliness confessed
A few pointless tears follow an admission of joy
You think I've done something, you're wrong again boy
I count the the weeks once and twice with regret
I see my end is not soon, not yet
