The hours come and then they go,
Departing before my woeful eyes.
They continue to the next of days,
And its wretched heap of lies.
The things that are to hard to come
Out with and just say.
Surround me in my guilt stricken,
Selfish, saddened day.

My thoughts are overwhelmed
Filled with envy, abound with lust.
I cannot push it from my mind,
Although I know I must.

But if I keep it to myself then is
It such an awful thing?
Without pursuit or acknowledgement
What harm could it bring?
It can be my little secret and when
Distressed, put me at ease.
Only then it would be my own heart,
In which I constantly tease.

I shouldn't bother anyway, and for
More reasons than I can stand.
It is reckless of me to devote to you,
These workings of my hand.