I could write a million tears and never shed a tear.
Never loving, never caring, that is what I fear.
Can I be, what I’ll be, and still be good inside?
Even though the good child in me has already slowly died?
Did you feel, what we felt, on that fateful day.
When unicorns died and butterflies cried, or that is what they say.
It was strange, almost if, the choking of a sigh.
Or is that how one feels when they finally begin to cry.