Bent

Once more I'm at a low within myself.
I can make believe to deal.
Too late to turn back.
Complaining "the passion's gone" are words that define wasted time.
Shot down by inquiring eyes that can't disguise.
Rehearsing the words they long to hear
still I can't lie it rips inside; bang, you're dead.
Do you feel for me like I think you do?
Give me faith a new order to give me faith.