All quiet in that solitary place
Where all is still and your inner reflection
Stares back at you from a tarnished mirror:
Patchy, half-formed, unclear
Speckled through with rust and age.
There are no rewards for being a 'nice girl’
Nor for being a ‘nice boy’ either, really
(If one thinks about it a little more, that is.)
But if nice boys score sometimes
Nice girls don’t score at all.
In the end all that’s left
Is solitude, and that
Is utterly embraceable – unlike you.
Nor for being a ‘nice boy’ either, really
(If one thinks about it a little more, that is.)
But if nice boys score sometimes
Nice girls don’t score at all.
In the end all that’s left
Is solitude, and that
Is utterly embraceable – unlike you.
