So the sky turns
another night of solitude,
another night of concrete pain,
drowning in my pillow.
Sleep is such a detrimental view,
its such a confidential loss.
I'm sorry I'm a secret
but I think better when the lights are off.
These fingers have committed suicide
I have no hope or energy
to reach that little pen.
Hold it at gunpoint,
see where it takes you.
Darkness writes the thoughts
whether you want them to be true or not
but I guess I just need something to say.
I think I scare myself like that
but I cant explain insanity.
It's not worth the effort
and it's probably not worth the time.
So can you murder my memories?
Don't be afraid, someone, please,
Everywhere I go is just another tragedy,
but I can't wallow in self-pity
while my luck has failed me.
I could mean more but pray I don't;
it's easier to be less sorry
when words are weapons
and weapons are skills
that none other seems to grasp.
One night, I opened up my mind.
and found a dollar bill inside.
It's just a blessing, just a guise
to take abnormal off your mind
as another sorry sunset dies.
The night could be a calling
but I fear it's just a crime,
a waiting, a feeling
that the sunshine leaves behind.
The stars could be a hero
or they could be a piece of mindlessness
that travels in and out of inner seas.
It's all I ever see.
Walking streets and walking lines,
taking in the picture-frames
and all that lies between;
a pretend world remains unseen.
This all may be a dream.
As sleep rolls in and I roll out
from under covers, under sheets;
breathing hurts and fireworks
that keep me up and keep me beat
and keep me where I want to be.
This isn't where I want to be.
I can't control the weather
and I sure as hell don't control tides
and time, the moon, the hearts,
myself and everything that involves me;
and if sleep has ever been a chance,
a moment for this brain to breathe,
strictly nights, forbidden fights
between my emptiness and me;
and I, as I should solely say
when words are all that matters.
Incubus attack, devil on my back
I wish it were a dream;
I'm just a false reality,
this is all the same to me.
This has gone on for so long,
and take that as you wish
but I can't seem to find the time for this.
Suppose there's nothing left to say
in the words of one who feels this way.
Oh, how so simply the story ends
of sorrowed family and friends
as the words end,
as the ink stains the paper and
lyrics stain your mind.
Letters and words strung together,
they make you smile, they make you cry,
they make you wonder if I'm alright
they make you think if I could die
within the hour, within the time
it takes to stain the paper,
it takes to craze the symphonies
of horror stories and chivalry.
I just stick to you that way
and I'm sorry I've wasted your time;
so sorry for wasting your time.