To move or to move on,
That is what I shall ask myself,
My covets do they outweigh my contradictions,
Does my fondness outweigh my fears,
I stand before you silent and stationary,
Motionless and mute,
Yet on the inside scream for you like a man buried beneath the depths of the earth.
But here I stand.
Watching you with other guys, is like a knife piercing my chest,
For I wonder if you feel the same way.
I felt we had something special,
Yet now you act as if it meant nothing,
You act like my presences was that of a peasant to a princess.
Somehow this only greatens my ambitions.
Part of me holds onto a false sense of hope,
While, still I question whether you ever felt for me at all.
Another part drifts to state for which I have felt yet.
For I know I must be insane,
For I know our relationship compares to that of a blooming flower in the dawning mists of spring,
But does the rain sprinkle upon blooming white roses?
Do they bloom in hope and endearment, or in absence?
