It looked so strong in the middle,
But when with the threads I started to fiddle,
It came undone.
Just like I when under the microscope of everyone.
I ripped it up,
I still feel bad.
But it was the ball and chain on the end of my calve.
Maybe I was black and maybe you were red,
Alas in the end, we're all just a thread.
To make a pattern on our own is rare,
We need others.
Upon that I swear.
With all of our minds used together,
Maybe our new pattern will last forever.
