Is it too much to dislike watching plucked flowers slowly dying in vases?
When you know who you want to be and where you want to go, it doesn't matter when they can't comprehend your actions and sacrifices.
Maybe we could talk about dreams, goals, life, or causes you fight for, or how you sleep the frustrations away—but you're a cat.
I count the lines on your palm, and I found nothing but me holding you.
If by chance a heart gives, a living soul be saved again.
Its judgement weighs my soul, counts my value in pure gold.
It's the pattern that hurts me, the repeat of things that I dislike but is difficult to accept why it's done.