all that money running in your hands has never quite lashed out my sorrow; give me all these bills and presents, but they will never make your house my home
don't you have any more to give me than what's left in your account? isn't there some love to spare between all that you claim is fortune? they say money makes happy too, but it's barely the same amount, and you say you can buy me things but isn't validation what i count on?
all i want's apprecciation, but i feel like you're not even proud - how's your daughter responsible for seeing you like monthly, once? they say, "you know how he is" but don't i have a right to be a kid for now? and honestly, i never really figured out why it's now me who makes our contact not burn out
you never took me seriously, instead you told me, don't cry pretentiously; did you know that it's one of the reasons why i shut my feelings out constantly?
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