_Redundant_

For me it was true,
All those little troubles that were coming through,

Of coming late and trashy talk,
Of miseries and lonely walk.

With the splendid thunder and curious blunder.
Of course of sistery were perfect mystery.
And of friends who were of you.
The pictures talked.
They talked of adjustments in lonely action.

And resent to a turmoil,
of days of action.

And when it was all redundant,
We matured.
We grew out of it,
Fighting for the same toys we thought were important to us when we were kids.

How we grew old only 'cause we needed someone,
Not that we needed the person,
But just the company.

The fact that she is with someone else before and after she is with you,
proves nothing is reliable, if you are, looking for one.