Time will heal an open wound,
always thought there weren't enough.
But as despair surrounds my soul,
Time will always be too much.
Killing it by writing words
without no rhyme or reason.
Continuing, poisoning my own heart,
infected by my treason.

Hiding inside my head,
afraid that you shall see
that I'm not over it yet,
and you might think I'm weak.
But there will come a day
when I write rhymes with reason.
Until that day, I'm killing time,
waiting for a new season.