Martina

Is this really the place, to start to cry, when even love is drained, the life around you shows, the best of times, now nowhere else to go, soaked upon the ocean main, the delicate airlines you fly, you always try to calculate, what there is to know, no longer hail the sky, wooden box or last throw, you once jumped bail, county lines let you by, beyond the spike of jail, your lips will never atone, for all the constant lies, like the stars grow cold, it's not easy to explain, what's going on inside, seeing your face strain, your eyes full of why?