You are a victim of the rules you live by.
I'm a half-written book,
a fish on the hook,
the first of two looks.
I'm a broken machine,
an old trampoline
with some rusted out springs.
I'm a bottled up note,
a song you once wrote
filled with old anecdotes.
You're a memory from a photograph I found,
A broken picture frame lying on the ground,
I'm forced to believe in something that can't be,
In a world that won't wait for me to come around.