The daily grind of standing in line
The endless wait for empty promises
The unfulfilling ways I pass the time
It’s the routine of being forgotten
The deep cut rut of being left out
The perfunctory pace and stoic face
That consents this daunting doubt.
Does he love me, does he care?
Would he even notice if I dared?
It’s the routine of being forgotten
That made me indifferent to
The state of your heart or feelings
When you discover what I could do.
