The Consequences of Sitting Alone

It's a lonely, lonely night,
with me just lying on the floor,
eyes open, eyes closed,
eyes on the silent door,

wondering if eventually
someone will knock
because they wanted to see me,
they wanted to talk.

Or they were looking for a friend
but chill with me instead
when they find out I'm still here,
losing my mind, out of my head.

But I count the tiles on the ceiling
and blink,
watch the water dripping
and think.

Feeling kind of worthless,
alone in this room
like who really gives a damn
if I'm empty too?

If I died tonight,
if I suffocated on my thoughts,
when would they realize,
when would I get caught?

When they were looking for their friend
and just found me instead,
or needed a book and hey,
there I am, dead.

Just sweep me under the rug,
a place for the unwanted like me,
who only take up space
and sleep and breathe

and drain the world's time
when there just isn't enough,
and fell out of the game
when the going got tough

because what's the point of it all,
when it's just me, myself, and I?
Why do I have to keep saying it's okay,
smile, joke, repeat my lie?

When no one cares enough to come,
I've begged, been rejected,
and it's over and done,
I just sit here, dejected,

and watch the water drop,
count the 47 tiles,
listen to the silent door,
wish I could run two-hundred miles

when they feel like a million
and I just want to go back
to when people knew my name
and my life was on track

and I had all these dreams
and I thought I would fly,
and we'd all get through,
everything would be fine.

But I was just being stupid,
braver with friends at home,
and maybe someone pretends to care,
but I'm still sitting alone.