The Stuff You Find Underneath Your Fingernails.

Hopeless Romantic.
We swore to Christ we’d never let it show
these days, of course,
I try my best to never let it grow
But I don’t know what’s real or what’s not these days,
it’s all a mystery, and some days I think
I’m really just living between my dreams.
Harmonizing fantasies, lingering beneath my feet,
Where the end just don’t seem to justify a means,
and arguably I am constantly admitting defeat.
We knew the risk when we took the oath.
We harbor grudges that we barely recall
the reasons to which we’ve been holding for.
Mistakes carry weight on my back,
And my knees just don’t carry the proper strength
to call them something I depend on any longer.
But where the Hell is God, to remind me that I am not a waste?
Do I not deserve comfort, do I just live to walk a road of shame?
Where the Hell is God?