There's a poet hanging from the ceiling
with a heart no longer beating
and she's swaying in the wind.
There's a child, confused in silent crying
at an end unsatisfying
and a soul of heartful sin.

Where is the end before the beginning?
The pages burned with no direction.
What's a future to a faker
whose alternate life has been condemned?

I've got lies but none as great as what I'm hiding
in a frown of all my miseries exempt from all sincerity.
Who could trust a truth of faking smiles in front of crying?
My heart is burning and I feel no cares or knows.

None compares to the loneliness I'm not allowed.
When did the light disappear from my eyes?
I can't identify my mind, there's nothing to accept.
What does it take to feel alive?
Before I begin to die on the inside,
I'll fade to nothingness.

I don't have a plan to turn a poet into a Savior.
There is only a blink upon an alternate solution.
Where does depression go inside an institution?
What will happen to my stone, cold heart?