What makes you think that you will be loved?
What makes you think that you will be cared for?
What makes you think that you will be remembered?

Seasons come and seasons go.. Im still stuck in dark murky past.
Tainted.. broken.. ugly and old.
Discarded.. unwanted.. disfigured and dead.

Do you not love me because I'm grotesque and ugly?
Do you not love me because I'm poor and broke?
Do you not love me because I'm used and old?

Deeper and deeper I'm buried in my dead decaying dreams.
This false ground always caves in.
Is this where I belong? This deep in the cold dark ground?