Every time, I dig a pit, abandon it, and somehow carry on.
Every time, when I'm hurt enough, I have a good cry.
I know I've always had the wings of a pigeon,
To coo, coo away despair.
I won't think about how many amazing favorites they have.
I can see the likes I get each week changing, too.
I know I've always had the wings of a pigeon,
To sour, sour into hope.
When you think I'm about to abandon a story, I do. And that, too, is a way of not abandoning it.
P.S. I've dug too many pits, so I might as well bury them all together.
