What is it to love? A girl and a guy?
Or is it the tears of happiness people seem to cry.
This I've seen, yet I seem to find,
The questionable things that seem to bind.
Love is pain and I seem to think,
Myself to be hollow and my thoughts that link,
To live a life of a pessimistic fool,
And be ethereal as a simple ghoul.
Though at times opportunity passes me by,
Of a feeling of love which I seem to sigh,
For I am not a man but a mouse,
Who would slowly retreat to ones own "house."
So I walk here endlessly as I look to the sky,
And wonder to myself: "Why?...Oh why?"