Tired of holding my head in my hands.
Tired of looking out windows and thinking back.
Tired of hands in pockets and railroad tracks.
So tired of the things that make me.
Sick of having dreams that repeat.
Sick of taking every back seat.
Sick of analyzing all the maybes and what ifs.
Sick of not getting over this.
So sick of the things that make me.
Through seeking answers to pointless questions.
Through feeling alone from lack of attention.
Through with wishes that never come true.
Through trying to get over you.
I’m through with the things that have made me.