One feeling like losing hope.
Two tears drip down to my throat.
Three little sobs held back in shame.
Four steps forward but I’m just as lame.
Five times now I’ve been ignored…
Six more tears when you strike a chord.
Seven is my lucky number.
Eight hours I lose of slumber.
Nine is when I’ll be okay, but at
Ten I still push you away.
Eleven times my own frustration, when at
Twelve you’re gone, and it’s my damnation.
Thirteen times I’ve tried to speak and
Fourteen times I’ve been too weak.
Fifteen is now almost over;
Sixteen, don’t come, I wish on a clover.