The branch ain't follow other branches, it set for it's own path, lived it's own life, wrote it's own story, And had it's own, flowers and leaves, to speak of, It was a journey on it's own, And now, all that remains is the splintered wood that faces different directions, carrying nothing on it, but perhaps a memory.
He fell for her too deep, but too early. He couldn’t control as it was too quick. He wonder what the differences been If he could cared less, If he could trusted less, If he could loved less Now all that left is a puzzle of broken pieces of love and care, Which, he hope fits in place.