I wait and try but when is my time? I've repented my sin and admitted my transgressions. Dare I go back to the mountain top to profess yet again? I have no strength left to be a patient man. I've found a love that is true and an outlet to quench my soul but, when its my time? Where is my rhyme? My struggle may lead back to my life of crime.
Time and time again this wretched world will not let me win. Cut me off at the knees again and again and again. These words are the death of me. I feel it inevitably creeping back on me. No rest for the wicked and death sentence for us wretched, tortured souls. I don't like the way my pencil feels against us today; lets try tomorrow another way. To get together for whatever, I know that smirk means you think I'm clever. You're not the only one that's tired of stormy weather. Now that we've found our rhyme shall we be back to "Mountain Time"? Mount it like Everest and flip the world the bird in jest. I can feel the pain lift off my chest while we speak and confess. I hurt dammit, I burn and I think you know the rest.
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