You would probably think that there's nothing left to complain
about.
Nothing more to think of.
But I've probably written 30 poems of complaints.
And I'm sure this will turn into one of them.
Sometimes I'm sick of my whining, and I hate myself.
Sometimes I'm sick of my whining, and I can't understand why I have
to keep going.
Sometimes I think that I'm done complaining.
But there always has to be a new pain.
Maybe,
Maybe,
Just maybe if I keep complaining about the old stuff, nothing bad will
happen.
Sometimes I hate my whining.
Sometimes I'm just sick of myself.
