Week 37 Ole Country Heart

Collectible treasures of immeasurable measure/ Birds of a feather, move, traversing the weather/ Storm stays, storm leaves, whoever got it together/ When the hardest word seems for me to be: "never"/ The fuck do I care for? Soul with an air hole/ When aren't you in rare form?/ I curse myself for it, control's too important/ Dragging out the past, should've kept it in storage/ World fulla color, yet it seems so morbid/ In the midst of my bullshit, conflicted, & warring/ Put the brush down, this corner's too rigid/ Should've used another lyric, I don't dig the depiction/ This trap's alotta things, but me, it just isn't/ Or maybe I've changed, and I feel I resent it/ Maybe I can't find the words to sum in a sentence/ Maybe it's the ending or maybe...it isn't/