Articulated lorry kind of shock,
You realise so much
When you close your mind and the mind is forced open.
And beauty is imaginary,
A concept ruined by the twentieth century
Except in certain styles of music
I've got a burning desire
Not to be alive anymore
And yet a sense of cowardly nostalgia
Stops me from following up any hopes and dreams.
Inability to be what I must be
Holds me back,
Strapped to the stretcher
And artificially asphyxiated by my sense of failure
Such a shame, I think, that I have throttled myself
Before I gave myself the chance to be anything
I am your sustinence
And, walking dead,
I march hopelessly
By your side
So that you will not fall.
I, the fallen, am in no danger.