Sometimes my mind goes woo.
I can walk through the sun and yet the warmth is no match for how cold I’ve really become.
The snow that’s fallen on a December’s eve doesn’t compare to the iciness of my skin.
The flowers bloom and are full of life, but then they die and become brittle dry cold and dead
Just like what my heart would feel like if it was under a size 13 shoe pushed into the soil.
The worms could feast on something that can hardly feel anymore from the abuse its taken.
The ice picks straight through it, the verbal abuse of hate and no love.
Maybe its just me but I think I have to much time on my hands.
I’m drowning inside the euphoria of my own mind.
Maybe I’ve just finally gone crazy.
It has been awfully long since I’ve last written anything with meaning.
Maybe I just care so much I’m starting to careless without even noticing.
Why do I even bother getting out of bed every morning when every day’s just another let down?
Why do paper cuts sting horribly so?
Olli Olli Oxen Free.. Why? Why would anyone want to find me?
At least someone in their sane mind.
Maybe I should go talk to the paint on my wall.
At least that wouldn’t question my morals.
Honestly I don’t know what I’m talking about anymore.
Why is there a sick little suicide in all that we do?
Why do you even bother reading this?
Why why why why why why why?
Why do I ask so many questions that have no meaning?
I wish I was a vampire minus the immortality.
Immortality’s just a fucking scam anyway.
December is for cynics.
Anyone get the reference?
I Suppose not considering I’m insane and I don’t know why you bothered reading so far into this.
Id rip my heart out if I could sometimes.
And I would sew my fucking mind closed so all of this wouldn’t leak out.
Why do leaves change color when we know damn well people don’t?
What will I become… nothing’s ever as solid as it really seems.
My reflection is the only thing I can talk to… and the paint on my wall.
I hope my organs fail before my dreams do.
I think I’m done for now.
What a complete waste of time on my part and yours.
The snow that’s fallen on a December’s eve doesn’t compare to the iciness of my skin.
The flowers bloom and are full of life, but then they die and become brittle dry cold and dead
Just like what my heart would feel like if it was under a size 13 shoe pushed into the soil.
The worms could feast on something that can hardly feel anymore from the abuse its taken.
The ice picks straight through it, the verbal abuse of hate and no love.
Maybe its just me but I think I have to much time on my hands.
I’m drowning inside the euphoria of my own mind.
Maybe I’ve just finally gone crazy.
It has been awfully long since I’ve last written anything with meaning.
Maybe I just care so much I’m starting to careless without even noticing.
Why do I even bother getting out of bed every morning when every day’s just another let down?
Why do paper cuts sting horribly so?
Olli Olli Oxen Free.. Why? Why would anyone want to find me?
At least someone in their sane mind.
Maybe I should go talk to the paint on my wall.
At least that wouldn’t question my morals.
Honestly I don’t know what I’m talking about anymore.
Why is there a sick little suicide in all that we do?
Why do you even bother reading this?
Why why why why why why why?
Why do I ask so many questions that have no meaning?
I wish I was a vampire minus the immortality.
Immortality’s just a fucking scam anyway.
December is for cynics.
Anyone get the reference?
I Suppose not considering I’m insane and I don’t know why you bothered reading so far into this.
Id rip my heart out if I could sometimes.
And I would sew my fucking mind closed so all of this wouldn’t leak out.
Why do leaves change color when we know damn well people don’t?
What will I become… nothing’s ever as solid as it really seems.
My reflection is the only thing I can talk to… and the paint on my wall.
I hope my organs fail before my dreams do.
I think I’m done for now.
What a complete waste of time on my part and yours.