Years now I've lain awake.
I've visited old haunts- that camp on the lake.
I've sung our songs, chanted our rhyme.
Yet now they're nothing- can't fetch a dime.
You'll write me off: a girl gone mad.
A letter in the mail: "Screw you," from dad.
I'll tear it up and surely I'll cry.
I'll yell out, demand to know why.
Why do others get love if I've only fear?
But no matter to you, just chug another beer.
I wish I could make you understand,
But too late- this sieve's run out of sand.